


The Sins We Suffer

by Melaradark



Series: Blood Sacrifices [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-03-26 05:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3839524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melaradark/pseuds/Melaradark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tale of the Warden Nike Cousland and her journey through the events of the first Dragon Age game, to become the Hero of Ferelden. Told slightly left-of-canon. The first in a series of at least three planned DA stories under the collection Blood Sacrifices. DLCs and Awakenings expansion included. FWarden/Morrigan romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Blood Sacrifices!
> 
> The Sins We Suffer is the first in a series that will follow through the Dragon Age games although with my usual left-of-canon interpretation of them. A few notes to start:
> 
> This first story will cover the events of Dragon Age: Origins and its various expansion and DLC packs including Witch Hunt and Awakening. It will be the story of the Warden and her journey to be the Hero of Ferelden. I will make some changes as I see fit of course, and this will not be just a point by point rehash of the game. 
> 
> For my warden I have chosen the Cousland background. Also, this will be a Morrigan romance (with a female warden) so if that sort of thing bothers you I suggest not going on- but at the same time do not expect this romance will be like the Del/Liara romance. If you do you are going to be disappointed. If you take it on its own terms, however, I’m hoping you won’t be.
> 
> I also do not go out of my way to over explain lore. I write with the expectation that the reader has played through the games at least once and has a general working knowledge of the world of Thedas and the settings we will be dealing with, and I do not apologize for any spoilers. 
> 
> On we go…

_**Prologue** _

 

The light was low and pearled with gray and gold, the dew thick enough on the ferns to slowly bow each frond, lending to a soft but constant patter of drips sometimes lost in the occasional cool whisper of air through rattling leaves.

 

The sun was not quite up yet, but it was threatening. Eyes the color of copper roses turned upward toward the distant low ridges and rocky hills in the east and the line of light that was growing stronger at their uneven edge. The creatures that loved the night may not all be in their various burrows and holes quite yet, but they were doubtlessly heading that way.

 

Including the one that Nike hunted.

 

The horse that she sat upon shook his head and then turned it to the side, sampling a few leaves off a tiny sapling that nestled under the older trees. Nike let him have his head to do so as she turned her own to look back along the wooded path, her hand tightening slightly on the wych wood bow that rested against her thigh.

 

She made an impatient sound. A dozen yards back the bushes rattled almost merrily.

 

 _“Holly!”_ She said, her voice a quick, sharp note.

 

A sleepy blackbird burst out of the bushes and inches behind it, grinning widely, came the mouth of a young mabari. The dog, thick with muscle but still gangly in the legs and oversized in the ears, lunged upward after the bird. It was far too slow, and its jaws snapped together in an empty click a good few inches clear of the blackbird’s tail. The bird disappeared into the trees with a few annoyed calls, and the mabari bounced down onto the path, then bounded back up again, leaping almost joyfully into the air as if to fly right after, letting out an eager and high pitched yap as it did so.

 

 _“Holly!”_ she said again, her tone impatient. She gripped the reins tighter and turned the horse’s head away from the sapling and toward the dog.

 

Holly’s body shifted toward her mistress, her head was still craning upward, mouth broken into a wide and tongue-lolling grin, trying to see where the bird had gone. At yet a third impatient sound, a sharp _tut!,_ the dog finally looked around, hurrying up toward the horse with the tiny nub that was her tail wiggling in mad delight, even as her ears edged back in a beseeching and apologetic look.

 

Nike loosened a strip of tattered and bloodstained wool from the saddle and swung off her mount with an efficient motion. The mabari bitch, though only half grown and not yet out of her first year, knew better than to jump up on her mistress no matter how strong her desire or excitement. The force of that wanting made her big bearlike paws stamp repeatedly in the dirt as if she was dancing. Against the red brown of her hide, the gleaming brass of her collar buckle flashed and winked as it caught the rising light.

 

Chunks of nearly dried meat and skin were still clinging to the desiccated scrap of wool. Holding it in her right hand, the other still occupied with carrying the bow, Nike waved it under the mabari’s nose.

 

“This is what we are here for,” she said, reminding the dog for what had to be the sixth time tonight, as Holly snuffed the wool so hard it pulled tight against her nostrils. Her tail never stopped that frantic wiggle, but her forelegs did stop their mad dancing. “Go on now. _Find!_ ”

 

Refreshed of her purpose, the mabari started snuffing around the ground, snorting and chuffing until she sounded like a boar rooting through the mud. Her mistress, satisfied her charge was now at least _looking_ for the proper trail and not for birds and squirrels, swung back up on her horse and tied the scrap back to the saddle.

 

It wasn’t the dog’s fault. Holly came from some of the finest Mabari lines in Ferelden, and she was as smart as a whip. Nike’s father had given her the puppy as a birthday gift, when Holly had been a bundle of unending wiggle the size and weight of a four month old piglet.

 

Yet, big as she had gotten, she was still a puppy, and while she knew what she was _meant_ to be doing, the rich smells and unending possibilities hiding in every copse, tuft of grass, and bush in the woods were still succumbed too now and again when their lure finally grew too strong to resist.

 

Nike wasn’t particularly bothered by it this morning. The prey they pursued now was not of import or concern to her. She was far more interested in expanding on Holly’s tracking experience then actually catching the culprit that had torn up two sheep from Roster’s flocks early the night before. Roster’s herd numbered over three hundred mutton, and Nike was fairly sure he could spare the two without _nearly_ as much fuss as he’d started making about it.

 

Nike also already knew what had done for those two sheep. In the Coastlands, the only predator with the size and need to pull down grown mutton was a wolf, and as she had surmised very quickly from the tracks Holly had managed to root out between eager pursuits after squirrels, it was alone.

 

Wolves were cautious, shy, and wary of both man and mabari. With the amount of barking and playful noise that Holly had been making since they’d entered the woods just after two in the morning, the wolf was likely in the Free Marches by now, but Nike figured that letting Holly root along its trail for a bit longer would do more good than harm to the pup’s training.

 

Back on track, at least for the time being, Holly started off again at a trot, tongue still lolling and snout pasted with mud. Setting her heels lightly to the horse’s side, Nike started after her, guiding her mount easily through the wide trees and thin underbrush of the old woods.

 

Nose bent diligently to the task now- a fact that would last only a few minutes, Nike was sure- Holly had fallen silent. Without the woods ringing with her booming, joyful barks, Nike could now hear the soft chuckle of water through the graying dawn, and tried to identify what it was and where she might be.

 

It was not a river, of that she was sure- she had gone in the wrong direction to reach a river of any size so quickly, but the coast of the Waking Sea was only ten miles or so north, and any number of small streams, brooks, creeks, tributaries, and even small springs peppered the Coastlands, growing thinner as the landscape turned into the soft wide grasslands of the Bannorn further south. None were so wide and grand as the Hafter to the east, or the Dane to the west, and so were more likely as not to have names that were at the whim of the locals and as changing as the seasons.

 

As it was, Nike was far closer to the Dane than the Hafter, having headed more or less steadily south-west since leaving home, but she would still have to ride another three days at a good trot to reach it. When one considered the delays wrought by her playful mabari pup and the fact that she hadn’t had Caspi much over an amble all morning as a result, she doubted she was any further than six or seven miles from where they’d begun.

 

Which would mean the water she was hearing was the old Mill Rush, a respectable stream that had plenty of wide slow places and ran deceptively deep. She’d go as far as the eastern bank and then head back home. With luck, she’d be in time for breakfast and no one would know that she’d been out at all.

 

Holly seemed to suddenly gain interest in the trail, and picked up speed, flashing with a dart into the underbrush. Nike, simultaneously taken by surprise and more than pleased at the fact that Holly had done so silently and without her usual gleeful barking- a habit Nike had not yet managed to break-turned Caspi’s head with a smart flip of her wrist and went after her.

 

The undergrowth here was not thick enough to thwart the horse but it did hide Nike’s view of Holly. She saw a rattle of bushes just a short way off and moved that direction, only to halt Caspi with a sudden intake of breath when she heard the growling begin.

 

Caspi, ears forward and head lifted, nostrils wide, did not appear as if he liked what he was smelling. He was not a shy creature, broke well for hunting and used to the scents of both blood and predators, so his look of focus was enough to raise Nike’s concern.

 

The growling was from Holly, not from whatever beast or man she had spotted, and it was soft and almost unsure. Silently, Nike dismounted the horse, dropping the reins to the ground to root Caspi to the spot. Unless he was under direct physical threat, Caspi would not budge until the reins were picked up again. Horses so trained, usually for combat or for the nobility, would even starve themselves to death rather than break a ground hitch.

 

Setting an arrow in her bow, Nike crept forward with care until she could see Holly’s haunches. The pup’s muscles were corded, as tense and stiff as if she had been carved of stone. The growl continued, a sound so deep and low it was almost sensation.

 

In a crouch, cautious, Nike edged forward some more. Her almost butter soft hunting boots conformed to the ground beneath her feet, allowing her to move with little to no sound. She felt a small twig tense underfoot as she started to shift her weight and eased off, shifting her foot just enough to avoid it.

 

Then, she was far enough forward that she could see through a break in the bushes.

 

About ten feet in front of where she now crouched, the ground sloped into broken rocks and gravel, and then into the slow moving waters of the stream. On the opposite shore, near enough to the trees to be under their cover in a flash, was a wolf.

 

She immediately knew the wolf was the one she had been tracking, and any surprise she had to see the animal so near when it should have been miles away was immediately snuffed out the instant she saw it clearly.

 

It was very old, this wolf. The mottled fur on its muzzle had become heavily gray, as if it had dipped its face into the ash pile left from a wood fire. Scars crisscrossed its hide, and made rags of its ears. It moved with the careful, deliberate motion of an animal that was in pain, and from the gnarled look of its wrist and elbow joints, she suspected it had a bad case of arthritis, perhaps as a result of some injury or other.

 

It would not be able to keep up with others, and had probably been chased out of whatever pack to which it had once belonged. She had assumed their prey was far ahead of them but the truth was they had probably been fairly close on its tail all morning. She thought briefly that it might be mad if Holly’s barks hadn’t alarmed it, but from its manner and appearance she could see madness wasn’t the cause. A bit more watching, and she realized the creature was likely stone cold deaf- a truth that would lead soon to its death even if arthritis and age hadn’t slowed it up.

 

The wolf was still hale and muscular if lean and tattered, but it would find hunting on its own hard to impossible, and being unable to hear any threat left it reliant entirely on its sense of smell and it’s far less keen sense of sight. In desperation, it would have turned to raiding chicken coops or rabbit hutches when it found their wild brethren now too swift to catch.

 

 _Or sheep paddocks_ , Nike thought. She had edged her bow forward and silently had drawn the fletch back to her ear, the sharp narrow point fixed on the wolf’s neck, right at the spot just above where it joined the shoulder.

 

The wolf, oblivious of the now silently glaring mabari and the arrow fixed on its life, picked its way carefully over the slippery rocks and down to the water, clearly meaning to drink. The last of its instincts, however, had not been quite dulled enough with age, and almost the moment it turned toward the stream, its head snapped up and its pale amber eyes fixed to Nike and the mabari crouched on the other bank.

 

She had a beautiful clear shot at the hollow of its throat now. It would die quickly, almost instantly, should she loose.

 

Instead, after a moment’s pause, she relaxed her grip on the bow, lowering the arrow and letting the string go slack. The wolf stared at her a breath longer, then turned and vanished with a hasty but clumsy limp into the trees behind it.

 

There was no point to killing the thing, unless she had wanted to do so out of mercy. She’d only wanted to work on Holly’s tracking and she’d done that. She hardly needed a gray, tattered old wolf’s hide, and if the arthritic old deaf animal managed to make it all the way back to Roster’s flock and picked off a couple of more mutton, that was something for Roster to fret over.

 

 _Maybe he’ll get a halfway decent herd dog then, instead of that useless lump of drool he has now_ , she thought. Roster’s dog was so stupid and fat that it would simply watch someone slaughter the entire flock before it could be bothered to get to its feet and give so much as a woof in warning.

 

 _He probably held the gate open for this old wolf to get into the paddock to begin with,_ she thought with some amusement, straightening out of her crouch and touching Holly on the back.

 

“Good girl,” she said, and eyed the light in the sky. If she went to the market road not half a mile north of here and let Caspi stretch his legs properly, they’d be home before anyone knew they had even gone out. Her parents didn’t approve of her sneaking out at the best of times, and certainly not with a half grown mabari in order to go hunting after wolves in the dark.

 

Nike was only thirteen after all, and such behavior was not seemly at any age- not for a daughter of a Teyrn. Hunting with a party decked out in full regalia was one thing, but the acceptance of that did not in any wise excuse going out after midnight by herself on a whim just to give an overgrown puppy more practice.

 

If any of the servants saw her stabling Caspi or heading back in, she could claim she just got up early and went on a morning ride around the grounds. That would get a bit of a lecture, but not nearly the scolding she’d get if the truth were known.

 

* * *

 

 

The girl and the dog turned and vanished back into the trees on the other side of the river. Unseen and unsensed by either, the black wolf watched them intently from behind the tree-line. Unlike the tattered old animal they had clearly tracked, this one was young and hale, not a glint or a fleck of gray or white in its thick fur.

 

It had stayed there, silently watching events as they unfolded, and as the girl vanished back into the trees where she had left her horse, the wolf’s almost unnaturally bright yellow eyes gleamed.

 

* * *

 

 

**Chapter One**

 

_Seven Years Later_

 

The halls of Castle Cousland were never dull or empty, but the bustle of the last several days was markedly increased from the usual. Elves scrambled here and there as if the tips of their ears had caught fire, carrying stacks of linens and bedclothes, baskets packed high with cheeses, or with brooms and dusters in hand. They spouted ‘Sorry!’ so constantly it was like they had forgotten any other word existed.

 

Men and women wearing beaten armor under tabards bearing the Cousland Crest- a laurel wreath on a field of blue-walked the halls with intent purpose or clogged the yards and training fields. Livestock and wagons full of bread, cheese, casks of wine and barrels of beer, snarled up the forecourt, and both horses and dogs had spilled out of the livery and kennels, and seemed to be everywhere outside that had a spare foot of room.

 

Even here, deep in the heart of the keep, the walls seemed to thrum with a low, rhythmic and growling beat- the sound of moving, striding, riding, marching, carrying, bustling, rushing, calling, all punctuated by the seemingly endless ring of metal from down in the smithy’s hot iron forge.

 

Bad as it had been the last few days, today seemed even worse. Nike wove through the knots and snarls of people, ignoring the salutes the armored ones gave her, ignoring the endless wave of apologies the pointy-eared ones gasped out mid-stride. Like a slim but elegant sailing ship parting water, she parted the bodies in front of her simply by moving forward. She seemed all but unaware of the controlled chaos, but the tight little line of irritation between her brows betrayed her annoyance.

 

She cut through the kitchens on her way to the main hall, but what was intended to be a shortcut turned out to be nothing of the sort. Billows of steam and smoke made a fog of the air, and people seemed to be rushing even more here, the elves with looks of near terror on their faces as they sliced fruit, carved haunches of meat, tended baking bread. All the extra bodies clogging the castle had to be fed, and it was clear the cook was at the last frayed edges of her temper. Trying to weave through the kitchens was an even more impossible task than weaving through the hallways, especially since in the miasma no one noticed her coming while they could still get out of her way.

 

Cutting out of the kitchens as soon as she could manage it, that irritated line set even deeper on her brow, Nike was just turning into the final corridor when a boy appeared in her path with a gangly, lopsided grin.

 

“Pardon me miss, but would you know how to get to livery from here?” he asked.

 

The boy was almost not a boy at all, his narrow cheeks scuffed with a peach fuzz of shadow that would probably be a proper beard this time next year. He was a good foot taller than Nike and all she could see of his shape was bird-thin legs and elbows. The rest was covered by the huge stack of horse blankets he was carrying.

 

The smell that came from the blankets was thick and loamy.

 

“The livery?” she asked, her irritated indignation making him blink. “The livery? You are honestly here, within a stone’s throw of the Hall, wondering where you might find the _livery?_ ”

 

He blinked at her, color starting to rise in his cheeks. “I-…it’s just that I got turned ‘round, and-“

 

She pointed firmly down the hall behind her. “Left,” she said crisply. “Follow it to the end, then right. Set of stairs, go down them. Turn left again, and cross the garden. From there you should be able to follow the sound of the smithy and the horses but in case you cannot, what you will be trying to do is find the training yards… _outside_. Where animals and thus liveries are most often kept.”

 

“Y-yes, Miss. Thank –“ he began but she had already stepped around him, resuming her determined path. He had already taken up too much of her time looking _inside_ for something that could only be found _outside_.

 

The Hall, as she stepped into it, was just as crowded as the corridors, but in the much larger space it was not nearly as bad. Her eyes flicking quickly, she caught sight of her father talking with three other men and headed in his direction. Two of the men she immediately recognized.

 

The shorter of the two, gray-haired and bearing elongated and yet somehow stubby features, was Arl Rendon Howe of Amaranthine. She had known the man since she was small. Her father had fought with Howe in the war, and the two families had been close friends ever since. She had all but grown up with Howe’s children, Nathaniel, Thomas, and Delilah. On rare occasion, her parents made useless noises about Nike marrying Nathaniel or Thomas, but they seemed to know they were useless even as they made them. Were Nike to pursue any of the Howe children it would far more likely have been Delilah- something everyone seemed to just _know_ but no one ever discussed.

 

Not that Nike had any sort of eye for Delilah- the girl was sweet but she was four years Nike’s younger and her head seemed stuffed with nothing but strawberry jam.

 

Delilah was nowhere in evidence, which was unsurprising. However, neither were Nathaniel or Thomas, and that did give her a bit of confused pause. Figuring they were simply elsewhere in the castle- tending to horses or helping to settle the Arl’s men- Nike dismissed it.

 

The taller man at Arl Howe’s side was Felip Ostvar, the Arl’s guard captain. He was a thick slab of a man, on which an oddly delicate nose and full lips seemed out of place. He seemed to be aware of this fact and obscured both as much as he could with a heavy, wiry beard that seemed to sprout from directly beneath his eyelids. Nike, as always, thought the man distastefully unkempt- his hair was long and greasy, ratting into thick long snarls that looked like a washer woman’s mop. He made no effort to trim or shape his beard and it resembled a heavy patch of brambles in which, Nike had no doubt, parts of last week’s supper still lay hidden.

 

Even the way he looked at her felt slimy and unkempt, his gaze full of just as much old food and bristled grease as his beard.

 

The third man Nike didn’t know. He was an older man, perhaps of an age with her father, and looked to be a man used to battle and the road. Even so he at least was _groomed_ \- his salt and pepper hair pulled neatly back from his shoulders in a small tail, his beard cleaned and properly trimmed. His eyes, gray as flint, were as keen as a hawk’s, and seemed to land on her the moment she stepped into the hall. Unlike Felip’s gaze, this one did not make her feel oily, but she did feel somehow _targeted_ \- as if just by looking at her he had marked her somehow and set her apart.

 

Howe was the first to speak as she approached, his eyes widening in an overly dramatic way that left her resisting the urge to roll her own.

 

“By the Maker, this cannot be Nike!” He said. “Girl, you look to have grown a foot and a half since I saw you last-you’re the very image of your mother!”

 

Nike, who had seen Arl Howe the previous winter and who had been exactly the same height then as she was now (she had stopped growing entirely when she was sixteen), nevertheless gave him a gracious smile and inclined her head politely.

 

“And here I had thought it was Nathaniel speaking to my father,” she said lightly. He laughed.

 

“Still such a charmer I see,” he said. Nike’s father gave her a warm and genuine smile, then gestured at her.

 

“This is my daughter, the Lady Nike Adela Cousland,” he said, looking at the stranger, who gave a polite and solemn half-bow, his eyes never leaving her.

 

“I am honored,” he said. His voice was low and rich. Nike supposed instantly that it was a voice used to giving commands, and them being obeyed without his need to raise it.

 

Her father then looked to her as she offered her hand toward the stranger politely. “Nike, this is Warden Commander Duncan,” he said.

 

Instantly her brows lifted. “Of the Grey Wardens?” she asked in surprise as he took her hand. “Are the Grey Wardens here as well?”

 

She had seen no tabards or livery of the Wardens in the halls, but they may have just arrived.

 

“Just myself,” Duncan said with a small smile. “There will be other Wardens at Ostagar but my purpose here is not to join your father on his ride south.”

 

“Duncan is here recruiting,” Howe said, almost joyfully.

 

 _Damned if he doesn’t sound like he wished he could join them_ , she thought. For all that was going on, Howe seemed intractably upbeat. _No doubt eager to relive his youth in battle_.

 

“Recruiting? I was not aware the Wardens lacked numbers,” she said aloud.

 

“We are always on the look-out for those suited to our order,” he said. “In times like these more than any.”

 

She suddenly burned with questions, but knowing her father would put a halt to them before she’d even begun, she instead said, “I am sure you will find many more than suited in the training yards. The finest young men and women of Highever are preparing to come to the call of the King- you could find no better pool from which to draw your selections.”

 

Her father’s even expression had not changed, but she could see in his eyes a hesitant sort of wariness.

 

 _He thinks I’m going to track Duncan down later and pester him with my questions,_ she thought. Of course, she might just do that. The Warden Commander himself under their roof recruiting as Highever and Amaranthine prepared to march at order of the King was deeply troubling. There had been rumors that this was more than just stirring darkspawn in the south- that this might well and truly be an actual Blight. The presence of this Duncan here and the Wardens down there lent a bit more solidity to those rumors than Nike would have previously entertained- and that made her fear.

 

Her father, her brother, and two young men as near and dear to her as brothers, would be making that march, and entering that fight. Rogue darkspawn were one thing, but a real _Blight?_ Any or all of them may not come home again.

 

Her father would soften the news for her, she knew. He was eternally optimistic as a rule, and he had a rather irritating habit of shielding his daughter from things he thought she might find unpleasant. He would claim they were just taking precautions, that there was nothing to worry about. Duncan, at least, might tell her the truth of things- provided she could get a chance to talk to him away from her father or Arl Howe’s interventions.

 

When she could manage it, she would have to slip away to the training yards. Hopefully, her father would be too busy with all the arrangements for the next morning’s departure, and wouldn’t accompany Duncan when he went to look over the men. Then, perhaps, Nike could have a chance to speak with him.

  
She didn’t know the man, of course. He could refuse to say anything, be just as insufferably determined to shield the poor young Lady Cousland from the truth of matters, but somehow she didn’t think so. Somehow, Duncan didn’t seem the sort to coddle or cradle-nurse anyone.

 

She was also not so much a child that she believed all the wild stories about the Wardens and their powers and skills, but one of those stories made the claim that Wardens were always forthright, that in fact they could not speak any sort of lie or deception, even if they wanted too- which is why any word from a Warden’s lips should always be considered as much the truth as if the Maker Himself had spoken it.

 

Nike didn’t know if that was true or not- it sounded like hogwash to her to be honest herself- but she fervently hoped right now that with luck, it just _might_ be. 


	2. Chapter 2

Deliberately, perhaps sensing that getting the conversation off the topic of the Wardens so long as his daughter was in ear shot, her father changed the subject.

 

“We are going to have to start the men ahead this afternoon,” he said to Howe. “We are already behind as it is, we cannot wait further for the rest of your men to arrive.”

 

“I am deeply sorry for that,” Howe said, and his eyes- which somehow always looked perpetually moist-were forlorn. “Both Thomas and Nathaniel beg your apologies, but-“

 

Bryce Cousland raised his hands. “No need. The King is young, and while I understand the urgency, I think he sometimes simply forgets that troops do not organize themselves and move at hat’s drop. That we have both the Highever and Amaranthine forces on the road to Ostagar with only three days’ notice I think is remarkable.”

 

 _So that explains where Nathaniel and Thomas are. Howe must have ridden ahead with a small group, leaving his boys to march the rest of the Arl’s forces behind_ , Nike thought. It would be good for them, she supposed. Both men were older than she, but not by much, and to have the experience of moving and commanding forces of men without their father’s looming presence would be beneficial to them.

 

_The Arl must have thought so too._

 

Perhaps thinking the same in regards to his own son, her father said, “I will send Fergus ahead this afternoon with the men, and join you in the morning when your forces get here.”

 

“Lady Cousland, will you as well be riding?” Duncan asked. Before she could speak, her father put a hand on her shoulder.

 

“No. My daughter is a skilled horseman and has some hand at archery, but she is not a soldier. As well, I do believe my wife would stretch me on the rack were I to bring both our children into war. Nike is going to remain here, govern Highever in my absence.”

 

He said it so casually, but it was the first Nike had heard of it. She knew she was remaining behind- her parents had made that exponentially clear at the first hint of suspicion that Nike would ask to go too-but to actually _govern_ Highever while they were gone?

 

“What of Mother?” she asked, afraid she had not masked the entirety of her surprise as she looked at her father. “I thought Mother would-“

 

“Your mother has decided that she is going to Amaranthine, to stay with the arlessa and Delilah until Rendon and the boys return.”

 

Clearly, her parents had already discussed this at length. While she knew her mother cared about the Arlessa and Howe’s daughter like family, to leave Highever for Amaranthine while both the current and future Teyrns were absent was out of character. Usually, her mother immediately took up the reins of Highever whenever her husband was unable to do so, without there being any question.

 

 _And that’s why she’s going_ , she realized. _If she stays, people will be automatically looking to her instead of me. They want me to do this on my own too, without parental interference._

 

The amount of trust they had in her to even entertain the notion of leaving her alone and in charge, warmed her heart greatly.

 

“Oh,” she said, still trying to recover from her surprise. “Well, it will be good for her to see them again. I know she misses the arlessa. It’s been a few years since they had time to spend. I suppose if both Fergus and Mother are leaving I had best go and see them while I have the chance.”

 

“You just don’t want to be caught here listening to two dusty old war hounds catching up,” her father said with a warm smile. “Go on love. I will see you at supper.”

 

She made her polite departures to both Howe and the Warden-Commander, and slipped out of the hall. Fergus, she knew, could be anywhere in the midst of this chaos, helping to finalize preparations to move out that evening, but she knew where she’d be able to pin him down later. For now, she was more concerned with speaking to her mother than her brother.

 

Locating her mother served to be almost as difficult as finding her brother might have been. Were this any other day, given the weather, her mother would have been in the garden or preparing a brunch, surrounded by her usual two or three ladies- sometimes visitors from outside of Highever, sometimes old friends from within the city itself, sometimes the wives of whatever men had come to discuss business or politics with the Teyrn.

 

For the last six years, Fergus’ wife Oriana could be counted consistently in that number, though after the first year her attentions had been distracted a bit with their son Oren. Nike’s mother Eleanor allowed them to be distracted only so much- she was utterly adoring of her first and thus far only grandchild, and did not need much excuse to spend as much time with him as possible. Oren was the spitting image of his father, and Nike supposed seeing him reminded Eleanor of Fergus when he was that age with a sort of fond nostalgia.

 

However, today was far from a usual day around the castle, and Eleanor was not in any of her usual haunts. A bit of questioning located her in the castle’s larder, taking inventory with a pair of elven servants.

 

“Mother, there are others that can do this,” Nike said as she entered, seeing her mother crouched and rifling through a cupboard, her skirts pooling around her on the stone floor.

 

“There is work enough for all hands today, and mine are no less capable than another’s,” Eleanor said without withdrawing from the cupboard. “With all the mouths we’ve had to feed we’re running low on quite a lot of supplies. The cook has her hands full at the moment.”

 

“Most of these mouths are leaving this afternoon,” Nike said, ignoring the two servants as she walked over.

 

“And the cupboards will be as bare as bones for the next week if we don’t make a proper order soon. No reason to leave the rest hungry once the men have gone on.”

 

She pulled out of the cupboard and got to her feet, dusting her hands together lightly as she looked at the servants. “We’re at our last bag of flour and all but a handful of oats. Make sure the miller is notified, we can purchase more wheat for grinding if he’s wanting.”

 

As the elf painstakingly scribbled that down, Nike looked at her mother.

 

“There is no reason _you_ cannot be writing down the order, and let the servants crawl on the floor,” she said. Eleanor gave a brief, tutting little laugh- the kind she gave when she thought Nike had said something particularly ridiculous. As was also her habit, she then completely ignored the thing she thought so silly, stepping over and winding an affectionate arm around Nike’s waist as she started out of the larder.

 

“So your father has told you that they are leaving this evening?” she asked. Nike shook her head.

 

“No, Howe’s arrived but his men are delayed. Father wants Fergus to take the men out this afternoon and he’ll follow in the morning with Howe when Nate and Tom get here. You are going to Amaranthine?”

 

Eleanor paused in the small pantry before they would enter into the mad bustle of the kitchens again, and took her daughter’s shoulders. “Does that trouble you?”

 

“That you are leaving? So long as you are safe, no. I am far more worried about Fergus and Father.”

 

“As am I,” Eleanor said softly, then shook her head. Her eyes, a pale blue where Nike’s were copper, then twinkled a little. “Your father was concerned that you would be troubled about shouldering the burden of Highever in their absence.”

 

Nike smiled slightly. “Were you?”

 

“Not for a moment. I love your father, Nike, but when he looks at you he still sees pigtails and baby teeth. I suppose it is in the nature of all fathers to have a bit of a blind eye to their daughter’s growing up, but I have not missed it. You are familiar with the running of the household, and you are smart enough not to be manipulated easily. You know enough of the inner workings of Highever politics to keep things running smoothly on your own.”

 

“From the appearances of those striding the halls there will barely be a soul left in the entirety of Highever to govern,” Nike said with a smile. “My biggest concern will be solving squabbles between the rats in the larder over who cheated whom out of a crust of bread.”

 

Eleanor let out a light laugh, letting her hands drop. “Not with the state it’s in right now. There is barely so much as a crust to start the squabble. I need to get those orders in, I will not leave you with an empty kitchen. Also, before I depart tomorrow I will make sure you have the household accountings and my ledger.”

 

Nike nodded, then followed her mother out into the bustling kitchen and then through into the halls. As before when she was alone, those rushing around seemed to automatically change courses as they approached, parting before the two Cousland ladies as if they generated their own unseen force, closing in behind them once again as they passed.

 

“Will you be taking Oriana and Oren with you?” Nike asked as some of the noise of the kitchens died down behind them.

 

Eleanor shook her head. “I have been trying, and may yet convince Oriana to do so,” she said. “She, however, is of the notion that she must be here to welcome Fergus back, the moment he returns over that threshold, no matter when that might happen. I’ve told her we will have several day’s notice, plenty of time to return, but she will not risk it. Ah, to be that young and so foolish in love again.”

 

“You are not foolish in love with Father?” Nike teased. Eleanor laughed.

 

“I love your father, and am devoted to him completely, but we have both grown beyond the foolishness of young romance I think- into the deeper practicality of maturity. My heart still swoons to see him but I no longer feel the need to actually swoon _myself_ at his feet.”

 

Nike chuckled at the image this produced, of her aging mother dramatically swooning at her father’s booted feet. The idea of her mother swooning for _any_ reason and for anyone at all was in itself preposterous. Even were her mother one day to meet the Maker Himself, made flesh and standing in all His glory in front of her, she would not swoon- though she would curtsy with regal grace.

 

 _Right before offering Him some tea and calling for a boy to stable His horses_ , she thought and her grin widened a little.

 

People had been telling Nike her entire life how much she resembled her mother. She had seen paintings and etchings of Eleanor when she had been younger, and physically she could not deny it. Nike had her father’s eyes, but the rest of her was almost a twin to her mother in her youth- when her hair had been the deep color of dark honey instead of gray, and her figure hadn’t been padded a little from the live birth of two children and the stillbirth of one.

 

According to those who had known Eleanor in her youth- her husband and Arl Howe among them- Nike was much as she was in terms of personality was well. Nike found this slightly harder to believe, though she had to remind herself when she first picked up the bow it had been Eleanor, not her father or brother, who had taken steps to correct her technique.

 

 _Cousland women should always know how to defend themselves_ , Bryce had often said. Eleanor had always amended that to ‘ _women_ should know how to defend themselves’ and touted it was not a special happenstance that came about solely because the woman in question was a Cousland.

 

Defending herself was about as far as the Lord Cousland would allow it to go, however. So long as his daughter knew how to use a dagger for close quarters he was satisfied. The bow, he winked at- archery was a tradition among the women of his house and his wife’s, and he saw no fault in Nike’s interest in it. Should she have tried to pick up a longsword, however, or engage herself in the rougher play of war, she would have been quite sternly lectured and even more sternly dissuaded.

 

Bryce Cousland had no problem with women becoming soldiers- indeed, there were quite a number of them in Highever- but it was too crude, violent, and rough an occupation for a highborn lady in his estimation.

 

Not that he had much reason to fear. Nike had no interest in being a solider, or swinging around a sword like a barbarian, sweating under pounds of beaten armor and mail. She was not a great fan of sweat and grime at the best of times, and even the women who swung a sword on any regular basis got the most horridly rough hands, almost as bad as those of washer women.

 

Still, for some reason Bryce Cousland seemed to be of the notion that his daughter was just longing to take off and play at soldier the moment the opportunity struck her. He had made it clear he did not want her even asking to come along to Ostagar, but it was a wasted effort- she had no particular desire to do so, and never had. Then, he had done it again, getting that look in his eye the moment she met Duncan, as if he expected her to leap on the fellow and demand he conscript her into the Wardens right then and there.

 

 _What a silly thought,_ me _as a Warden! I’d sooner see swine wearing fine silks._

 

The Wardens made her curious of course- and the presence of Duncan here worried her about her family to no end, but she was hardly at risk of abandoning Highever, her life, family, and her title, just to go tromping around who knew where for the rest of her life slaughtering filthy, ungodly darkspawn.

 

That reminded her that Duncan had mentioned going to the yards to look at the troops, and that she might be missing her only chance to speak to him. He may reassure her fears, or he might affirm them, but she’d rather be certain in where they stood than left in the dark.

 

Kissing her mother’s cheek, making some excuse or another, she bid her farewell and headed down through the winding corridors to the  muster yards.

 

She was not disappointed when she stepped outside. Thick clots of men in armor of leather, iron, and steel were still assembling, gathered in knots or forming into ranks under one commander or another’s order. Horses were being tacked, or shoed, or led about- from sleek and agile coursers to the heavy, stalwart and muscled war horses whose very hooves seemed as heavy as the maul hammers their masters wore slung over their backs.

 

Dogs, as well, joined the milling crowds. The heavy, jowly tracker hounds; the whiplike messenger hounds; the broad boned, bear-footed tanks of mabari- the war hounds.

 

In one of the fenced paddocks, several men were gathered, watching a pair that had taken to sparring. Nike spotted Duncan among the observing crowd at the fence immediately, and started that way. As she did, one of the mabari, who was as eagerly snuffing about as the others, broke away from the pack and ran over to her, nub tail wiggling. Nike smiled down at her.

 

“Hello, Holly. Enjoying all the excitement?”

 

Holly had well blossomed from her days as a gangly, easily distracted pup. Now a mature mabari of eight, she was pound for pound the equal of any of the war trained hounds, lousy with muscle and thick as a bruin. Bryce and Fergus loved to joke at times that her big broad head could make it through walls, if she just got up enough speed.

 

Fergus had also once joked that Nike should put a saddle on her. Holly seemed to appreciate the idea she could bust through walls, but the thought of being saddled had upset her. The next day, Fergus could find nothing of his good Antivan riding boots but a well-gnawed buckle- that Holly had no doubt deliberately left at the foot of his bed.

 

Fergus had never dared tease the dog about being a horse again after that, not even in good natured fun.

 

 _Mabari are just smart enough_ not _to talk_ , was the old Ferelden saying. Most people from Orlais, Antiva, or the Marches might not believe it, might think the tales about mabari were just exaggerated- but anyone Ferelden born or bred knew it was true. Mabari had been bred for intelligence, not just strength, for countless ages. They understood much of what was said, and had enough self-awareness to even get their feelings hurt over comments- as Holly had demonstrated.

 

 _Give them another age or so, and you’ll be able to put a sword in their paw and not tell them apart from any other soldier_ , Nike thought as she worked her way over to Duncan, Holly at her side.

 

With all the bustle and noise, Nike was a bit surprised when Duncan turned around and looked at her before she even reached his side, as if he had heard her coming. She gave him a polite nod, and he returned it.

 

“Good afternoon, Lady Cousland,” he said as she joined him at the fence, turning his eyes back to the match.

 

“Well met Commander,” she replied, also watching the fight. “It seems you have no shortage of prospects for recruitment.”

 

“There are slimmer prospects here than it would seem,” he replied. She lifted her brows slightly, then gestured at the gathered crowds.

 

“I see no shortage of able-bodied folk here vying to impress you, desiring to be Wardens.”

 

“Yes, and that is the problem,” he replied.

 

“You do not want men who _want_ to be Wardens? That seems a peculiar logic.”

 

“More often than not, it is those who most want to be Wardens who are the least suited to being one. The more a candidate tries to impress me, the less likely they are to do so.”

 

“So you only take recruits who are unwilling?”

 

He glanced at her, and she could swear she saw the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. “It is not so simple as that either. I have been doing this a long time, and there is a knack to it. Tell me, Lady Cousland-of this group before you, whom would you select to be a Warden?”

 

“I hardly have any idea,” she said, looking over the gathered crowd. “All I know of Wardens is myths and tales, most of which I’m certain aren’t even true.”

 

“Yes, precisely. That is all that most of them have heard as well. They seek to draw my attention not because they truly desire to be Wardens, but because they think they want to be the type of Wardens found in those tales and myths. Truth is rarely how we hear it in stories, the dream never lives up to reality. These men desire a dream, and I can only offer them a reality. To recruit them would be a disservice both to them and to the Wardens, when they found out the difference.”

 

“So you want to find the men who know the reality and yet still want it?”

 

“Sometimes. More, I find the men who can face that reality, and do it justice and honor. Wanting, sadly, rarely is close bedfellows with suitability. What we want in this life is rarely what we get or need, or are even prepared to handle.”

 

“I see,” she said. Duncan looked at her.

 

“So, knowing that, my Lady- tell me. Who among these here would you select to be a Warden?”

 

She looked back out over the crowd. Holly, as if the question had been put to her, reared up and draped her paws over the top rail of the fence and peered at them with intent thought as well.

 

“Ser Gilmore,” she said at last. Duncan followed her gaze.

 

“Which is he?”

 

“Over near the wall. Tall man, red hair, talking with the hostler.”

 

She pointed off past the paddock and the rumbling crowds. Duncan looked and then nodded, though she was not sure he had picked the proper man out of the bustle.

 

“If you do not mind bringing him here, my Lady,” he said. She looked at him in surprise again.

 

 _You want me to_ fetch _him for you? What do I look like?_

 

It was on the tip of her tongue, but something in Duncan’s gaze halted her remark. He was asking a casual favor, there was no insult or demeaning of her station in his eyes. In truth, there was no station at _all_ in his eyes. He called her ‘My Lady’ more to keep from offending those near in her own home, but the truth was plain in that gaze

 

 _I’m no lady to him. My father is no Teyrn. These men are not soldiers. The servants are not common or baseborn. He uses these terms because he knows they matter to_ us _, but they do not matter to_ him. _He sees me as no more nor less than himself, and he seems himself as no more nor less than any beggar or king he might encounter._

 

 _There are no titles among the Wardens_ , she remembered. _They recruit from royalty and poverty alike, human, elf, dwarf, even mage- it doesn’t matter to them, and everyone they recruit loses any title or blood claim they might have had before. Maybe he’s been a Warden for so long things such as title and even race have lost all meaning to him, even among the rest of the world._

 

Cocking a brow slightly, she inclined her head, then straightened tall and let out a sharp, ear piercing whistle through her teeth. So loud and sharp did it cut that nearly everyone suddenly halted and stared at her, the rumble in the yard dying down somewhat.

 

“Ser Gilmore,” she called, taking advantage of the lull in noise. Her voice rang over the yard, thrust firmly from her diaphragm.

 

 _A noble woman never yells, but never fails to make herself heard,_ she heard her mother say.

 

Ser Gilmore had looked over with the rest at the whistle. At the sound of his name, he straightened more, bowing his head slightly. She gestured. “If you would please join us.”

 

He nodded and started their direction, the rest of the yard slowly resuming their business.


	3. Chapter 3

Ser Gilmore was a young man of only twenty, but he had the breadth and bearing of a seasoned man twice his age. Nike knew him fairly well; his family had lived and served in Highever since the time of her grandfather, and Fergus had learned with him as a sparring partner from the age of ten.

He had never been the boastful sort that was intent on showing off, even though he had the skill behind such boasting should he have indulged.

He wove toward them through the crowed, then bowed his head politely as he reached them. “Milady?”

“Ser Gilmore, this is Warden-Commander Duncan,” she said with a gracious gesture toward the older man beside her. “He is here looking for new recruits for the Grey Wardens.”

“Lady Cousland suggested you, when I asked for recommendations,” Duncan said. Gilmore looked both pleased and surprised, inclining his head toward her again.

“Milady Cousland, you do me honor,” he said. “In truth, I had never even considered-“

As he continued speaking, Nike’s attention was distracted from the conversation by a sight halfway across the yards. She could see a young boy with a thick nest of auburn hair, weaving through the crowds. For a moment, he seemed to be floating a head above even the tallest men there. Then she realized she could see him so clearly because he was riding upon the shoulders of a man in armor, who had the same identical nest of auburn hair. Behind them came a woman wearing a silk gown, holding the hem halfway up her shins to avoid dirtying it.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment,” she said, then stepped past them. As he caught sight of her, the boy lifted a hand triumphantly in the air. In his grip he carried a small toy bow and arrow. He waved them around as if they were a flag of victory.

She smiled as her brother and his family drew near, Fergus swinging young Oren off his shoulders and setting him on the ground.

“Look, Aunt Nike!” the boy said, showing her the bow. “Father gave it to me!”

As solemnly as if she were examining an old relic dug up from unknown ancient ruins, she took the toy bow and arrow and looked them over. The arrow was finished with cork, of course, for safety. Being a toy it would barely fire more than three or four feet and hit with little force. Nike predicted Oriana would be getting a cork arrow to the bum repeatedly over the next few days, before she grew exasperated and took the toy away.

“Well, this is very fine, isn’t it?” she said, and smiled at him as she handed him the bow back.

“I wanted a sword,” he said.

“Oren, we discussed this,” Fergus told his son. “When you’re a bit older you can have a sword. Nothing shameful in having a bow.”

“No, I just want both,” he said, as if it were painfully obvious. Before his father could respond he looked at Nike again. “Can you teach me to shoot it? Mama says there’s a Gray Warden here, and if he sees me shoot it, maybe I can be a Grey Warden too!”

“Maker forbid,” Nike heard Oriana say softly under her breath.

“There is a Warden here,” Nike said to her nephew. “He’s talking with Ser Gilmore right now. Sadly, I think you need to be considerably taller before they’ll recruit you.”

Oren had already looked past her to spot the man talking with Gilmore. Before she could catch hold of him he darted past and tugged on the scabbard on Duncan’s belt. As Nike rose, Fergus moved over to reprimand his son.

“Oren! Manners,” he said firmly. “That is not how we introduce ourselves!”

Ignoring his father, Oren said, “Are you the Grey Warden?”

Duncan looked at the boy as seriously as if he were speaking to a general. “I am. My name is Duncan.”

He offered his hand, and Oren shifted the bow and arrow awkwardly into one hand and then shook the proffered hand with an expression of adult sincerity on his face.

“I am honored to meet you,” he said with almost painstaking care. “My name is Lord Oren…Octay-vee-oh…Bryce…Don-ald… _Cousland._ ”

“It is my honor, my Lord,” Duncan said.

“Did you ride here on a griffon? May I see it?”

“Oren, do not pester him with questions,” Fergus said, picking his son up and planting him on his hip. “My apologies, Ser Duncan.”

“No apologies needed, Lord Fergus. I am sorry, Lord Oren. Grey Wardens no longer ride griffons. They have been extinct for quite some time.”

“What? Their eggs stink?” Oren asked, baffled.

Fergus laughed. “No, Oren. He means that they are all dead. There are no living griffons left in the world.”

“Oh,” Oren said, disappointed.

“That is a very fine bow, if I may say,” Duncan said smoothly. “Do you know how to shoot it?”

“Not yet,” Oren said. “My Aunt Nike has to show me how. She’s the best at arch-ry.”

“Is she now? I should very much like to see you fire it,” Duncan told him. “And I would not be averse to seeing a demonstration from your aunt as well.”

Immediately Oren beamed.  “Can I, Father? Can I show the Warden how I shoot my bow?”

“I think that’s a fine idea,” Fergus said, but he was looking at Nike. “Let’s go over to the target yard, shall we?”

The small group headed over to the archery yard, where battered and splintered targets had been set up for the men to practice on. Fergus made sure the field was clear, then smiled at his sister, who returned the look coolly.

“Would you escort me, Oren?” she asked, graciously offering the boy her hand. He proudly took it, and together they walked out into the field as if entering a ball room. They didn’t stop until they were only two or three feet away from the nearest target. One of the elves shifted the bales the targets backed onto, to lower it to the boy’s height.

Crouching beside him, Nike carefully helped him with his cork arrow, showing him how to nock and hold it, then draw it back. So intent was he on her instruction that his brows beetled sternly over his nose, his lower lip trembling with concentration.

“Mind the wind,” she said softly, so only he could hear. “If the wind is blowing from the right toward your left, shift your aim a bit to the right of where you want it to land. The harder the wind is blowing, the more you shift. Same for the wind from the other side. If you want the arrow to go further, aim higher, but mind the wind there too.” 

“It’s…left I think,” he said, his voice straining as if he were holding hundred pound weights instead of a toy bowstring.

“Very good. So… _there_.” She shifted his aim just a little and then took her hands off him. “Then relax your fingers-like this...”

She showed him with her own hand how to release the shot smoothly. Of course, being only five years old, he did not do the same. He let his hand splay out, shifting the hand holding the bow too much as he did, and flinching at the same time. The arrow barely wobbled out of the bow and flopped onto the ground.

“Oh, _drat!_ ” he said, and stomped his foot. Nike laughed.

“No mind, no mind. Let’s try it again.”

She helped him to reset his bow and try again. This time, the arrow managed a more or less straight course, hit the hay bale just to the right of the target, and flopped to the ground again.

Determined to get it right, he retrieved the arrow and tried again, then again. By the fifth or sixth try, his tongue poking out from between his teeth, he was at least getting the cork tip of the arrow to hit the wood of the target. It was getting nowhere near the actual target area, but for a five year old it wasn’t bad. His parents and the onlookers cheered with gusto each time, as if he’d hit dead center from a thousand paces.

Finally, she picked Oren up and carried him back toward his parents, who were just behind the fence with Duncan and Gilmore.

“Good job son,” Fergus smiled, ruffling his hair. “You’ll be pegging rats between the eyes before you know it.”

“You did very well,” Duncan said. “In time you might make an excellent Warden.”

“I can’t,” Oren said, clearly disappointed, but feeling this was necessary to impart. “I have to stay and be a Turn. It’s my duty, Father says.”

“And an important duty it is, to be a Teyrn,” Duncan said, then looked at Nike. “Lady Cousland, perhaps we can see your skills at the bow?”

“Forgive me, Commander Duncan,” she said, and passed Oren over the fence to her brother, “but I have to decline.”

“Why? I wanna see you shoot!” Oren said.

“Nike,” Fergus had a gleam in his eye. “Do not be rude. The Warden Commander is our guest-”

“I was under the impression we were preparing for a war in the south, not indulging one of Mother’s summer salons,” Nike said to her brother, then nodded toward Duncan and Gilmore. “And I have a thousand and one details to attend. Warden Commander, Ser Gilmore, please excuse me.”

 She turned and crossed back through the field toward the milling crowds and the keep beyond. Barely had she stepped inside when she heard heavy boots behind her, and turned. Fergus, unsurprisingly, had pursued.

"Nike, what’s gotten into you?”

“Fergus, I have no want or desire to become a Gray Warden.”

He let out a surprised laugh as he reached her side. “A _Warden?_ No one suggested-“

“I am not a fool. Father seems to think I am on the verge of running off to join the Grey at my slightest whim. Now Duncan, twice, requests to see my hand at archery? For what purpose does _that_ serve, I wonder?”

“I’m sure he’s just curious as to your talents and skill-“

“If he is simply curious to see my talents and skill I shall create him a fine napery. Perhaps with an image of Andraste on it? Or do you think he’d be more partial to a dragon wreathed in flame?”

“Nike, you’re being ridiculous-“

“Am I? Are you saying my needlepoint is not good enough to impress our guest?”

“Your needlepoint is the envy of every household from here to Antiva,” he said, in that exasperated tone he always used when he knew she was being sarcastic.

“And the Wardens’ reputation is known in all the same households,” she said. “He is here recruiting. Father seems to think he might try recruiting _me_ , and now he expresses an interest in my combat skills. A drunken fool of an elf could see what is happening. Well, I won’t have it. Ser Gilmore is a fine recruit, and there are another half dozen of the same caliber out there for him to choose from.”

Fergus stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders. “Look,” he said gently. “I don’t know what words have passed between this Warden Commander and Father, and you are absolutely right. There are plenty of good men and women out there who would make excellent Wardens. You’re needed here. Duncan knows that. Especially now, with Mother going to Amaranthine and Father and I leaving for Ostagar. He’s hardly going to tie up the daughter of the Teyrn of Highever against her will and drag her off to Weisshaupt. What purpose would that serve? Especially if she clearly does not want to go?”

“Apparently, the _only_ recruits suitable for the Wardens are the ones that do not wish to go,” she said bitterly.

“What? That’s ridiculous!“

“It actually made sense when he explained it,” she said, then waved a hand as if clearing the air between them. “Never mind. You’re right. Short of invoking the Right of Conscription that man could not drag me out of Highever.”

“Too right,” Fergus smiled.

“Which is precisely why he doesn’t need a demonstration of my skills,” she replied, and he laughed.

“Fine. Be stubborn as you like. Believe it or not, I’m going to miss that while I’m gone.”

Her eyes softened a bit. “I’m going to miss you as well, Fergus. I…having the Wardens here recruiting only makes me more fearful for what you and Father are getting into. What if this is not just an incursion by the darkspawn? With the Wardens so interested this must be a Blight.”

“If this is a Blight we’ll be with the king and his armies and a whole mess of the Grey,” Fergus said. “Don’t imagine for a moment that anything less than an archdemon would keep me or Father from returning home.”

“That’s the problem,” Nike told him. “If this is a Blight there will _be_ an archdemon.”

“Which the Wardens will handle, Nik.”

“Fergus, do stop coddling me like I’m no more than Oren’s age,” she said with a huff. “You and father are not immortal. A lucky sword can stop your heart as easily as anyone else’s. What would we do then? What would your wife and son do?”

“What wives and sons have done since the beginning of time, when soldiers fall in battle,” he said sadly. “Nike, do you think I want this? Do you think I want to die out there and leave Oriana and my boy alone? Of course not! But this is what needs to be done to keep them and a thousand like them safe, and I would die for _that_ …happily.”

“I know, and I know it is the right thing to do. It’s just…well, my grousing about it is hardly going to stop you,” she said. “I only wish I had more assurances I would see my family again. I suppose short of Andraste appearing in a flash of light to tell me, or the Maker Himself sending a letter by dragon, no such assurances can be had. I’ll have to live with that as best I can.”

“Try not to worry,” he said. “You’ll have your hands full with Highever, even with most everyone gone. Immerse yourself with that, and we’ll be home before you know it. And if that doesn’t serve to be enough to distract you, you might get started on that napery for Warden Commander Duncan.”

She gave him a cool look and he laughed.

 

* * *

 

The sun was low in the sky but it was still a good two hours remaining before it got dark. The open glass doors that let out onto the library balcony afforded Nike an unobstructed view over the wall and along the Teyrn’s Road that threaded through town.

She had gone down and bid her brother goodbye in person half an hour before, but still the last of the men could be seen on the road, a long snake of soldiers, horses, wagons, carts, and dogs slowly slithering out of view.

In the morning, the scene would be repeated. Howe insisted his men would arrive promptly at dawn, and barely would breakfast have a chance to be swallowed before he and her father would be departing with them along the same road. By afternoon, her mother would have gone off as well. She was still attempting to talk Oriana to come along with Oren. If her sister-by-law agreed, Nike would be without the entirety of her family for the first time in her life.

_It will be months before I see any of them again_ , she thought.

If it weren’t for the danger her father and brother were riding into, she would likely have been eager at the chance to run Highever on her own.

“My Lady Cousland, do you have a moment?”

The voice drew her attention away from the view, and she turned. Duncan was walking across the library. Straightening a little she lifted her chin.

“Commander Duncan, certainly. I trust you found what you needed for recruitment?”

“Ser Gilmore was an impressive choice,” Duncan said as he drew to a halt. “He has agreed to depart with me tomorrow to Ostagar, where he will join the Grey.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” she said with a smile. “Ser Gilmore is a good man. You will not regret your decision.”

“I am certain I will not,” he replied. “Lady Cousland, I wished to apologize for offending you earlier in the yard.”

“I can recall nothing you did by which I would take offense,” she said.

“You seemed upset with me that I asked for a demonstration of your archery skills,” he replied. She drew up a hair’s breadth straighter.

“I was not offended, Commander,” she said. “I was busy. There were still things to attend to before-“

“You were not too busy to spare the time to come to the yard and speak with me,” he said evenly.

She stiffened rigidly, all trace of her smile vanishing. “I was concerned about my father and brother,” she said tightly. “Your presence here signifies that this incursion might well be a Blight, and I wanted assurances.”

“Assurances that they would be safe?”

“Assurances that it was or was not in fact a Blight,” she replied coldly. “I know there can be no assurances as to their safety in any case, but that margin of safety becomes thinner if this _is_ a Blight. I am not one who desires to be kept in the dark. I prefer to worry over reality, not fearful imaginings.”

“You could not have asked your father or brother?”

“They have an irritating habit of coddling me,” she said. “Deciding what is or is not fit for me to hear. They seek to protect me, as if my wallowing in ignorance over the matter in some way would actually afford protection if the worst were to happen. I suspected you would not be the same, and would give me a forthright response.”

“I would indeed,” he said to her. “Others are not yet convinced, but it is my belief this is a Blight.”

Despite the fact she had all but known the truth anyway, she felt her stomach quaver a little. She was unconsciously careful, however, that neither her posture nor her expression gave this away.

“You are certain?”

“Yes.”

“Did you and my father discuss your recruiting me into the Wardens?” she asked after a moment. If he had been so bluntly honest about the first point, there was no reason to believe he would not be about this point as well.

“Your father was against the idea, as you suspect.”

“However you are not.”

“You were my first choice.”

“Do you intend to invoke the Right of Conscription?” she asked tersely.

“No,” he replied. “That is not my intention.”

“Good. I am the daughter of the Teyrn of Highever, with a duty to my title, my family, and my people. I have no interest in abandoning that or my home- for the Wardens or for anyone else. It is beyond me why you even _considered_ me as a recruit!”

“Tell me something, Lady Cousland. If there was a threat to Highever, one that necessitated your riding into battle to defend it, would you do so?”

“I am not a soldier,” she said.

“That is not what I asked,” he replied. “You are skilled with the bow, and with the dagger. I have not seen it myself as you know, but I have no reason to doubt what I have heard from others, including your own family. If there was a threat to Highever and its people, one that necessitated your riding into battle to defend it, would you do so?”

She was offended. “Are you suggesting that I would sit in the castle and-“

“I am suggesting nothing,” he said. “I am asking.”

“I would do whatever was in my power, whatever it took, to defend Highever,” she said. “If that required taking up my bow and riding into battle, I would do so without question or hesitation.”

“And does that desire stop at Highever?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If a village ten miles east were being threatened, would you if necessary ride into battle to defend them?”

“Of course I would-“

“If it were Amaranthine?”

She made an exasperated sound. “Amaranthine has its own forces, the chances that I would be required to ride to her defense is-“

“If circumstances dictated, _would_ you?”

“If these utterly impossible and incredibly ridiculous set of mythological circumstances of yours were to happen, and the pressing need was that I _personally_ ride into battle else Amaranthine and its people be lost, then yes,” she said.

“Why? They are not your people.”

“They are _people!_ ” She looked aghast. “Fereldens!”

“So it is that they are Ferelden people that makes them worth your effort?”

“What _are_ you suggesting-“

“Again, I am asking,” he said patiently.

“No, it is not _just_ that they are Ferelden!”

“So you would do the same for Orlais, or the Marches?”

“They would hardly need _me_ to-… _right._   Your ridiculous hypothetical circumstances wherein all the forces of Ferelden and the rest of Thedas are astoundingly somehow defeated or incompetent, and require only me and my little bow riding bravely to the fore in order to be saved. Certainly, _why not?”_

Duncan ignored the frustrated flap of her arms she gave to punctuate her words and instead asked, “Why?”

“ _Why?_ Because any force strong enough to threaten any part of Thedas like that and so utterly decimate any army put in its path, is certainly a threat to Highever! It would be ludicrously ignorant to think it will not one day land on my _own_ doorstep! And I do not know how things work for the Wardens, but here, we rather rely on the rest of the world for our day to day business of survival. It’s incredibly inconvenient when everyone but yourself rudely stops existing, don’t you think? ”

She was being highly sarcastic now, frustrated, confused, and angry at his inane questions. To her surprise though, he only nodded solemnly.

“Your realization of that reality, and your willingness to do what must be done to prevent it, is why I considered you for the Wardens, Lady Cousland. Hopefully, we will be able to stop that very force, before it gets a chance to decimate all armies that are put into its path- as it has done in Ages past.”

She stared at him, and after a moment he bowed slightly, pleasantly bid her good evening, and left her alone in the library.


	4. Chapter 4

Dinner that evening was an unusual and oddly lonely affair. Normally, the Couslands all gathered around the table in their private dining room. It was insisted upon by the Teyrna. Every other meal of the day might be taken apart but dinner was not optional, barring illness.

 

Tonight marked a change for the first time in as long as Nike could remember. Bryce still had his hands full making preparations for the morning. He and Arl Howe made a brief appearance but did little more than apologetically assemble sandwiches out of the sliced roast before they were off again.

 

Fergus had gone, his spot empty. Oriana and Oren were there, but the boy was both exhausted and overstimulated by the day. Oriana managed to get half a plate into him before he broke down into frustrated tears over his father being absent, and she bustled him off to bed.

 

Eleanor herself kept getting up and then returning to the table, insisting that every detail be perfect before her own departure. “I will not leave my daughter a mess,” she said more than once, though Nike knew that her mother would never have let Highever get into a mess to start with.

 

So for a good portion of dinner, Nike sat alone at the long table, picking at the small sliced roast and stewed vegetables, the echo of her thoughts her only company.

 

She kept going over and over what Duncan had said, highly irritated at his gall and yet cowed by his words.

 

It was true, what he had told her. Blights were horrific, endless hordes of darkspawn crawling across Thedas, destroying everything they touched. They corrupted and poisoned by their very being, and more often than not decimated any army put into their path.

 

The Grey Wardens had first began Ages ago in order to stop them, succeeding where vast ranks of armored men had failed. As ridiculous as it might be to imagine a single soldier with a bow succeeding in normal circumstance, where the combined forces of entire realms had failed- it became far less so when that solider was a Warden.

 

_Don’t be preposterous_ , she thought, giving her vegetables another pointless stir. _They are tales. Member of the Grey or not, a single Warden against the Blight would be rolled over as easily as anyone else_.

 

She knew it had to be far closer to the truth that the Wardens succeeded against the Blights for other reasons than what the tales would suggest. For one, they Grey did not send single warriors to fight a Blight alone. While the Wardens may not have the number of any given standing army, they were still an army in their own right.

 

She knew enough about the Warden’s to know much was fancy, but that didn’t leave out the fact that some was likely true. No one was really sure what gifts of talent or magic was bestowed when one became a Warden. Possibly none- but Wardens also did not hesitate to recruit mages into their ranks. Being a Warden, was in fact, the only safe way for a mage in Ferelden to live outside the Circle. The Chantry and Templars still called them apostates, but no effort was made to arrest or contain them. The Chantry understood the need for the Wardens- at least in principle- and chose not to put themselves at odds by violating ancient treaties and demanding their mages surrender themselves.

 

A small army containing mages of varying degrees of ability would do far more against the Blight than a single man or woman, perhaps, but Nike was certain of the truth behind their success.

 

It wasn’t what the Wardens actually _were_ that gave them their edge- it was what they _represented_.

 

Everyone in Thedas grew up hearing the incredible and unbelievable tales about the Wardens. In a sense, they gained a power in the mythology built up around them that was hard to contest. It wasn’t so much that the Wardens took on the Blight and won, it was that they had the power to unite all others under that idea.

 

The various armies of Thedas might take on a Blight but they would do so for themselves. The Fereldens would fight to protect Ferelden and would leave Orlais completely on its own. The Orlesians would be glad the Blight was harassing the ‘dog lords’ and would only rouse themselves once their own borders were threatened. The various cities in the Marches would only care when the Bight showed up at their gates. Everyone would fight for themselves and leave the others to fall or stand as they would.

 

Toss the Wardens into the mix and suddenly there was one flag for all. Orlais wouldn’t fight for Ferelden but they would fight for the Wardens. Ferelden would leave Orlais happily to be consumed but they would fight for the Wardens.

 

Everyone, from the Marches to the Wilds, feared and respected the Wardens. It was the one common thread that would tie them all together. Without the Wardens, it was every country for itself against a Blight. _With_ the Wardens, it became everyone _together_ against the Blight. You didn’t have to be a strategist to know the latter bought you far greater chances of success than the former.

 

The Wardens were not anything special. They were men and women. They were skilled combatants to be sure, and singularly dedicated, but they were still just men and women. It was the idea _behind_ them- and that alone- that gave them their true power.

 

_Were that idea one day to be shattered the Wardens would fall before the Blight like any other army. Duncan is wrong. One person riding into battle is not going to succeed where whole armies have failed, even if that person_ is _a Warden. Stripped of the myth, the Wardens are nothing_.

 

Her food had gone stone-cold, only half eaten. Looking around at the empty chairs, Nike folded her napkin and lightly placed it over her plate, before rising. Out of the shadows a single silent elf hurried over, clearing the plate almost before Nike had turned away for the door.

 

* * *

 

 

Nike was dreaming about the fire.

 

It boiled up in belches of hot white and yellow, birthing acrid clouds of sky clotting smoke. All around her, men were darting about the yard, shouting for water. Nike sat, smudged and bruised, in the middle of the yard. She had come running out of the solarium and had been knocked to the ground by one of the terrified servants.

 

From the depths of the fire she could hear the horses screaming.

 

“Caspi!”

 

She bolted to her feet, rushing for the stable door. Young Squire Gilmore, her brother’s friend, was near to it. He had an arm up to shield his face from the incredible heat, and seemed to be looking for an opportunity to run inside.

 

Nike didn’t bother looking for opportunities. She rushed past him, felt his fingers briefly on her shoulder as he reached out for her in surprise, then plunged past.

 

Smoke burned her eyes and lungs at once, her skin stretching painfully tight with the heat. Flinging her arm around her nose and mouth she blindly rushed on. The screaming was all around her now.

 

Something came up under her feet, and she tripped and fell sprawling. Water from the spilled bucket washed over her stomach and face and she sputtered. Her head was spinning, and each breath only pulled in a furnace.

 

Pushing herself up, she groped blindly out and found the door of one of the stalls. Her fingers blistered instantly as she grasped at the hot metal latch, but she managed to loosen it. Hoarse sounds roiled around her, carried by the smoke, and she realized dimly she’d gotten the wrong stall. This one held only the cartman’s old, nasty-tempered donkey.

 

Crazed with fear and not at all grateful for being freed the bloody beast gripped her wrist in his teeth as she fumbled against him, then bolted, tearing her off balance and sending her crashing to the ground. One kicking hoof knocked her in the temple.

 

She couldn’t get up. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, and the burning horses were still screaming around her. _Caspi_ was still screaming.

 

Then the screaming changed. It wasn’t the horrible sound of terrified, dying horses any more. It was a child’s voice; Oren’s voice. Nike struggled to sit up in the stall. Though she could see nothing else she could see Oren, sitting in the middle of the aisle only a few feet away. His hair had been replaced by fire, and his face was swelling with blisters, cracking with heat, cooking to black.

 

His mouth fell open again, and he let out another brief, wet scream as the sky outside suddenly rumbled with low thunder-

 

-and Nike sat bolt upright in bed, staring in confusion around her room. Her lungs, still convinced they were choking on smoke, heaved in breath after breath of air. Her hair stuck damply to the back of her neck.

 

A dream, nothing more. It was a familiar dream, as well, one she had suffered for weeks when she was fifteen.

 

The fire had been real, though they had never been certain the cause. Nike had been in the solarium when she’d heard the first shouts, and rushed out into the courtyard. Even now, years later, she could perfectly remember the sound of the dying horses trapped in their stalls.

 

The part where she’d run past Gilmore into the fire was true, as was the part where she managed to open the wrong stall. In the end, out of all the horses in the stable, including her own beloved Caspi, she had only managed to save that damned ill-tempered donkey.

 

Gilmore had rushed in shortly afterward, along with Fergus. It had been too late to save the horses but they luckily found Nike, half-suffocated, burned, and knocked silly from the hoof-blow the jackass had given her in thanks.

 

Her mother used to tell her when they carried her out, choking and coughing and scorched themselves, they had thought she was dead.

 

_“I was certain you had gone to Andraste. My poor sweet brave girl.”_

 

Nike hadn’t died, obviously. Her next real memory was of waking that evening, having been treated by a healer and still feeling as if her lungs were being squeezed, but suffering no lingering physical injury. She had wept for days over her poor Caspi. It took longer for the nightmares to go away, but go away they did, and only rarely now did that one return.

 

The part with Oren had been new. Obviously, the boy hadn’t been born at the time the fire had occurred. Fergus wouldn’t even be married until years later. Why Oren had suddenly appeared in her dream like that-and the thunder? The thunder had been strange. The thunder…

 

…was still going on?

 

Her breathing had just started to slow when she realized she could still hear the growling rumble. Holly, who often slept in her room, was standing at her door. Every tooth in her mouth was bared, her lips skinned back almost demonically as she rumbled that low, dangerous snarl.

 

The last cobwebs left Nike at once and she slipped out of bed. An ornate old trunk stood near her wardrobe and she hurried to it, opening and taking out a dagger.

 

“What is it girl?” she whispered softly. Holly didn’t budge. If not for the endless snarl, the mabari might well have been made of stone. Crouched there beside her trunk, Nike strained to listen.

 

Muffled voices, perhaps? Distant shouts? It was hard to tell, to hear past Holly. Creeping over to her window she peered out through the lower sash, but could see little. There seemed to be quite a lot of torchlight than was usual for the middle of the night coming from the direction of the yards, but she could make out no detail as to why.

 

One thing was certain. Holly would not be growling at her door unless something was very wrong. What that could be, Nike didn’t know, but she doubted she wanted to address it in her nightgown.

 

Moving as quickly and silently as she was able, she drew some clothes out of her wardrobe and pulled them on, then sliding on her boots. Dagger in hand, she edged toward the door.

 

Before she reached it, there was a loud wham! The wood visibly shuddered and jolted, the heavy latch holding it shut rattling loudly. Holly went from growling to a frenzy of snarls and bellows until it sounded like a whole platoon of mabari was in the room.

 

Nike shifted back, her fingers now white-knuckled on her dagger, and looked around. As the door shuddered again, she ran back over to her window and opened it, peering out. Below her window, there was more or less a sheer drop sixty feet into the side dooryard. The balcony of her parents’ bedroom was about thirty feet to her left, past the roof of her mother’s study on the lower level of their suite. The study was set outward from the wall, and the roof provided a good five or six foot ledge, that started six or seven feet below Nike’s window. However, it was sharply and steeply angled.  Beyond it she could see a faint gleam, as if her mother had left a lantern or a candle lit in their bedroom.

 

Behind her, the door jumped again, the latch starting to crack. Holly furiously assailed it, foam flecking off her lips as her big paws dug and gouged at the wood. Nike turned back with a worried, “Holly!”

 

Just at that moment a final blow landed, and the latch splintered and broke free.  The end of what looked like a small and roughly hewn log appeared through the breaking wood panels of the door itself. The broken door flew open, and Holly flung herself through and on to whomever was waiting there.

 

Nike started toward the door herself, but quickly halted when two men rushed in. From the sound, Holly had driven back at least one or two more- there were human screams and shouts of pain mingled in with her bellows.

 

The two who entered wore heavy armor and had gleaming blades in their hands. They were strangers to Nike but she immediately recognized the crest on their tabards- and the intent in their eyes.

 

She stood no chance against them with only her dagger and a thin layer of clothing between their swords and her flesh, and she had only a moment to act. They didn’t pause, not to taunt or savor or explain themselves.

 

She was wearing no sheath or belt by which to stash her dagger, and while it may look romantic in illustrations or paintings to tuck one’s blade between one’s teeth- it was also a very good way to cut your face or tongue open if your blade was double edged, as hers was. As the men rushed in she dropped it instead on the floor, rushed back to the window, and scrambled out of it.

 

There was a swish of wind, and one of the sword blades sank into the side of the window frame as her head fell out of sight. Clinging to the window sill with her hands as she hung below it, she used her momentum and swung her feet for the study roof. She released her hold just as the sword freed itself and again sunk down where her fingers had just been.

 

There was a moment of terrifying freefall, and then her boots slammed hard into the sharp slope of the study roof-ledge. She awkwardly threw her weight forward, the breath barking sharply out of her as she landed belly down on the slope, and immediately began to slide backward. Her blouse rode up and the rough stone tore at her belly, her boots and hands flailing urgently for purchase.

 

The toes of her boots came upon the lip of the roof and caught hold. As she stopped, she gripped the edge of the roof with her hand as well, and pushed herself up, climbing the angling arch hurriedly.

 

One of the men yelled something behind her. She stepped over the apex of the arch and edged down the other side, keeping one hand on the wall as she did. The balcony to her parents’ bedroom loomed ahead, carved stone posts holding up a broad railing of polished iron and wood. Halfway down the slope of the roof toward it, she braced herself and leapt, catching hold of two of the posts. Her feet swung down and forward in open air.

 

As she started to haul herself upward, she heard another yell, and then a very familiar hiss past her ear. The arrow hit the iron of the railing near her head, and bounced off. She flung an arm upward, over the railing, and heaved, getting her leg up enough to get her boot between two of the posts.

 

Another hiss, then a hot sting in the back of her shoulder. She grit her teeth, lunged, then flopped gracelessly onto the balcony, scrambling for the door that led inside.

 

Once through she straightened to her feet. Instinctively she groped around at her shoulder, expecting to find an arrow sticking out of it. Apparently the tip had struck bone and it had bounced back to tumble away, because the wound was both shallow and empty.

 

So long as the men who had attacked her weren’t idiots, it would take them almost no time at all to leave her quarters, run down the dozen or so feet of corridor to her parent’s door, and be upon her. A quick glance showed that the bedroom she stood in was empty.  Her mother’s nightclothes were laid out but did not appear to have been donned, though a small book on the table side and the lit candle suggested she had not been far from doing so.

 

If Eleanor or Bryce were still in the suite it was not here. No one was in sight, and the door was standing slightly ajar. To make for it would have been foolish, and would only have put her in the middle of that hallway with her attackers bearing down on her.

 

Instead, she hurried quickly for the door to the lower level of their suite, rushing down the spiraling steps toward the study whose roof she had just climbed over.

 

Her head was thundering. The men who had attacked her had been wearing the colors of Arl Howe, and fury burned in her throat at the very idea.

 

_Bandits, or enemies of my father_ , she thought. _The craven cowards donned the colors of the Arl hoping to gain entrance. What story did they spin to get in, I wonder? Did they pretend to be the scouts of the Arl’s main force?_

 

That they would slither in under pretense of honor, besmirching the Howe family and their good name in order to perpetuate devilry, enraged her. That there was clear murder on their minds and not hostage-taking terrified her for the rest of her family. Where were her parents? Oriana and Oren? The Arl? With all the shouting they had been doing, all the noise from Holly, half the castle had to be roused by now. They certainly hadn’t bothered trying to keep quiet.

 

_Which means there might be a lot of them, or else I was the last one they came after_ , she thought, then shoved it down as she reached the lower level and rushed through the side study door.

 

The study was empty, and dark. She crept toward the door that lead into the hall and carefully eased it open, glancing up and down the corridor.  

 

Two bodies were sprawled over the Orlesian carpets to her right, another to her left. Elves. Servants. In the distance she could hear a mabari still barking madly, but if it was Holly or one of the others, she could not say. Men were also shouting in the distance, and she heard the unmistakable clash of weapons on shields.

 

Taking heart that the invasion was now at least known and being countered, she moved into the hall. Were she to go left, it would lead her toward the main hall. While that was likely the safest place to go, the quarters Fergus shared with his family were to the right. Fergus had arms in his rooms she could use, but she was more concerned about seeing if Oriana and Oren were all right.

 

The final part of her nightmare had come back to her with chilling force- most especially that painful, wet scream Oren had let out at the end.

 

Oren’s bedroom was right below her own. If that scream had been real…

 

She broke into a run.


	5. Chapter 5

The bottom seemed to drop out of time itself, the seconds suddenly draining away, elongating into eternal versions of themselves. Only half a dozen steps down the hall and Nike could see the door to her brother’s quarters was standing open.

There was no sign it had been rammed as hers had been, but if Orianna hadn’t yet been ready to sleep, she may not have latched it. It may be possible that Nike’s mother had been visiting to say a final goodnight, or that a servant had been delivering a soothing cup of tea. 

It was not the sight of the door standing open that cast its spell on time, nor drew the strength suddenly out of Nike’s legs. It was the sight of the crumpled heap of cloth she could see through it. A figure was sprawled on the carpeting in the main room, covered in blood.

Heart thundering in her ears, Nike reached the door. Her hand seemed to push it further open of its own volition. 

Another of the elven servants lay dead in the main room, in front of the merrily crackling fire place. Blood formed a small lake around her, and though she lay face down, Nike could that her throat had been slit so violently her head had nearly been severed. Nearby a tray had been cast aside, shards of broken porcelain strewn about it.

A few feet away, near to the open door of Oren’s bedroom, lay Orianna. She was in her dressing gown, soaked deep crimson from her own severed throat. From how she lay and the splashes of blood sprayed over the door and its jamb, it was all too plain what had happened.

The marauders had not needed to break in her door. The elf had indeed come with some tea for Orianna, and they had simply strode in after her. They had caught the poor girl and slit her throat, possibly before she had even known they were there. Orianna had witnessed the brutal attack and had tried to run toward the only thing she wanted to protect; her son. 

Orianna was not a screamer, as most melodramatic highborn women tended to be. In times of sudden surprise or terror, she was far more likely to lose her breath and thus her voice. Seeing the men murder the servant would have instantly rendered her mute, and she hadn’t made a sound as she went for her son.

Oren had made a sound, Nike thought in some distant, echoing cavern of her mind, even as her legs were carrying her forward. Orianna had gotten far enough to open the door to his room. Oren probably hadn’t been asleep- tired but too keyed up to relax. Perhaps he had even sneaked out of bed to play with his new toy bow. When the door had opened, he would have looked over immediately, expecting his mother to chastise him for being out of bed. 

Instead, he would have seen those men murder her- and he had screamed.

I heard it, in my dream. The scream as I saw him burning, and then the second one…

The second one had sounded choked and wet. 

Nike stumbled down to her knees as she reached poor Oriana’s side and her eyes fell into the bedroom. Oren was a tiny limp heap at the foot of his bed, a waterfall of red staining the quilt Eleanor had made him when he was born. 

For a moment, the world seemed to draw away into a muffled smear of light dwindling into darkness. Nike felt a numb and yet oddly heated rush prickle over her, crawling over her scalp, and she wavered on her knees. Her hand almost instinctively caught the edge of the door frame. The only thing about the world that seemed to remain in perfect, horrible clarity was Oren. 

The way he was crumpled there like a forgotten bundle of laundry, so immeasurably tiny he seemed little more than an infant. Surely, such a small body could not have contained all that blood on the quilt. His limp little hand was draped over the edge of the mattress. She could see his pale little fingers, the creases of the knuckles, the infinitesimal fingernails. Below it on the floor, stained in his blood, was his new little toy bow and arrow. Someone had stepped on it, a heavy thoughtless boot had snapped it in half.

She knelt there in Oriana’s blood, fingers digging into the doorframe, staring at him with no thought of time or danger. When a soft, muffled sound came from behind her, it seemed to ring like a gong through her head and her entire body jumped so violently it was almost like a convulsion. 

Time and reality surged back to the fore of her mind as she stared at her mother, who had entered the room behind her. Eleanor was still wearing the dress she had been in all day, but there was a strap across her chest holding her quiver, and her own wych-wood hunting bow was in her hand. Despite the scene before her, she looked at first as stoic as ever- until one noticed her face was pale, and her eyes were unfocused.

“Mama…” Nike said, and managed to get up to her feet. Eleanor started to move, taking a few steps and then picking up speed as she neared her daughter and the body of Oriana. Her eyes were fixed past them, into the bedroom. 

Nike managed to catch hold of her mother before she strode over the threshold, and for the briefest of moments, Eleanor wrenched in an attempt to break free. A soft wail escaped her and then, for the first time in Nike’s memory, her mother’s strength shattered and she sagged downward. Nike fell back to her knees to keep hold of her. Sobs escaped, and Eleanor gripped hold of Nike as if afraid she was about to tumble over a precipice, her eyes never leaving Oren.

“Oh, no…oh nooo…my poor little baby!”

“Mama,” Nike said again, tears filling her own eyes, her body shaking. “Mom…”

Eleanor seemed to physically take hold of herself again, wrenching her eyes from Oren to Nike’s face, her grip on her daughter changing.

“Nike!” she said, struggling the sobs back and steadying her voice. “Nike, are you hurt?”

Nike shook her head. “They broke in my door but Holly went after them, and I got out the window,” she said. “Brigands masquerading as Howe’s men-“

“No,” Eleanor said, her eyes visibly steeling again. She got to her feet, Nike moving with her, and mopped the tears from her cheeks with swipes of her palms. She quickly looked about, then moved hurriedly over toward a locked cabinet in the corner where Fergus stored some of the arms he’d collected over the years.

“No?” Nike heard herself say as she followed. Eleanor didn’t bother trying to find the key to the cabinet. Instead, she picked up a small stone sculpture of Oriana’s off the side table and began slamming it into the decorative panel. 

“They are Howe’s men,” Eleanor said as the thin wood splintered and broke. “He held back his forces deliberately for this action. The moment they arrived they attacked. Our men managed to close the gates before the bulk could press through into the courtyard, but dozens got inside and it will not take long for the rest to manage it.”

She dropped the sculpture, reached inside the cabinet, and unlatched it. Pulling it open she pulled Nike over and stepped aside. “Arm yourself, love.”

Eleanor then hurried over to the door, carefully checking the hall. Nike felt so completely detached from herself that she may as well have been dreaming again. Numbly, she rifled through the cabinet, taking one of her brother’s smaller swords and a sheath, buckling it around her waist. She was not adept at sword work, really, but her options were limited. She found her brother’s small hunting bow and snatched it, quickly fishing around and praying that her brother kept bowstrings handy. Moments later he found a small leather pouch and two or three strings stored inside.

“The hall is empty but I can hear fighting getting closer,” Eleanor said over her shoulder. “Darling, please, hurry.”

Nike hooked out a string and quickly strung the hunting bow, then tucked the pouch into the sword belt. Fergus had his skin quiver in the cabinet too, but of course it was empty of arrows. On the rare occasions he wanted to go hunting, he would have just gone down to the armory and filled his quiver there.

Slinging the quiver over her shoulder she ran over to Eleanor, pulling five of the arrows from her mother’s collection and dropping them into her own. There were only ten arrows altogether, and they wouldn’t last long if they didn’t find more.

She was doing her best to just focus on each action, one at a time, and nothing else. A mingle of fear, grief, confusion, and anger was hammering her heart against her ribs, and if she let all of it in right now she was worried she’d go mad.

That these were truly Howe’s men who had done this pushed the feeling of anger to the fore, and it seemed to consume the other feelings into itself, growing hot and sharp edged. 

Howe was her father’s dearest friend. They had been at each other’s weddings. Their children had played together, nearly grew up together. 

He supped at our table, she thought over and over again. He was laughing and joking with my father earlier today, smiling at him while at the same time plotting the deaths of his family-

Her anger was so great she felt she might vomit merely from the force of it. She didn’t know it was even possible for a person to feel such a way about another.

“Where is father?” she said in a voice that sounded hurried and breathless, her words tasting weak and dry in her mouth.

“I don’t know,” Eleanor replied. Her eyes were worn and red, her face still edged with white, but her usual resolve seemed to have steeled. “He was with Howe-“

“We have to find him,” Nike told her. “Gut Howe for what he’s done-“

Eleanor suddenly turned on her, grasping her arm tightly and giving it a sharp shake. “Look at me, Nike. Look at me!”

Nike blinked stupidly as she met her mother’s gaze. Eleanor was peering at her just as intently as if trying to determine if she had a fever. She spoke swiftly, and softly.

“Howe has an army about to break down the gates. They cannot stand against it. There are twenty or thirty already in the castle. Howe planned this well. We cannot stand. Do you hear me? We cannot stand. We need to flee-“

“Flee?” Nike said, her anger making her outraged. “I am not going to just run away-“

Eleanor slapped her. It wasn’t a vicious or punishing blow but one that might be given to wake someone up who was drowsing. Feeling as if she had just been doused with a bucket of cold water, Nike gaped at her. Her mother had only slapped her once before, but she had been eleven, and had said something rude she’d heard a stable hand say in the yard.

There was fear behind Eleanor’s eyes. An intense and almost pointed fear. If the slap had been a sudden dash of cold water, the fear was a chilling bath.

“We cannot stand,” her mother said in a low, intent voice. “My grandson lies dead behind us; I will not see you the same. Rendon planned this very well, and our only hope is getting out alive so that he can pay for this appalling treachery. Someone needs to warn Fergus. We need to flee.”

There were only a dozen or so men left in the castle. Good men, to be sure, but taken by surprise as they were and outnumbered, they would not last long. They would hold the gates best they could, but the army outside would break them down, and once that happened it was over. She and her mother had only ten arrows between them. Even if Nike planted every single one in the eye of a cowardly traitor, the end would be the same. 

Howe didn’t want hostages. The deaths of Oriana and Oren proved that, even if Nike hadn’t seen the look in the eyes of the men who had broken into her room. He wanted the Couslands nothing but dead. He wanted Highever. That was the only reason he would have to murder a little boy- because that little boy would retain a claim on the teyrnir and the title of Highever. It was only if Howe was after those two things would killing Oren make any sense. 

Which means Fergus is in danger as well, Nike thought. Is a Howe lackey waiting for his opportunity to stab my brother in the back, or is Howe just counting on the Blight to do his dirty work for him? 

No…Howe’s smarter than that. A Blight could be survived, and if news reached Fergus of what happened here, he’d return with the King at his side. Cailan would not stand for a betrayal and a bloody coup. The Blight might delay him but in the end he’d come- and Howe would be drawn and quartered for his crime. With all of us dead Howe can tell the king any tale he likes, and there would be none to contest what he says.

So, a traitor likely laid in wait for Fergus as well. Maybe under orders to make it look like a darkspawn took him down? 

Her mother was right. If they stayed, they died, and then Fergus would die too. Howe would have Highever, tell his stories, and never pay for what he had done. For a moment at this realization, her grief separated from her anger and she lowered her head, throat closing on a sob. Eleanor hugged her tightly.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know, my sweet love.”

“We have to find father…” Nike said weakly. 

“If he lives…” Eleanor’s voice trembled faintly. “If he lives he knows where we will go. He will meet us there.”

They heard a muffled shout from further down the corridor, drawing both their attentions instantly. Eleanor hurriedly urged Nike forward and the two women moved quickly down the corridor away from the sound, toward the staircase in the western corner. Nike knew as well as her mother what was the only way out afforded them- a small passage that lead from the larder of the kitchens, into a corner of the track yard just on the other side of the castle’s northern wall. The exit looked like a boulder.

It had been built ages ago, when the castle itself had been constructed, to allow a messenger or the family’s escape in case of siege. It was a closely guarded secret in the Cousland family, and even the Cousland children were not told of it until they were grown, to prevent the temptation of sneaking out or playing in it. Nike knew her father would not have told even his dearest friend. Howe would be oblivious of it, but if they did not hurry the castle walls would likely be surrounded and their route made useless.

As they went toward the stairs, Nike set one of the arrows to her string and held her bow loose but ready. She was a very adept archer but she had only ever fired her bow at targets, or animals. Still, she felt no hesitation in her sudden resolve that the very first man she saw wearing Howe’s colors was going to get an arrow through the eye. 

They neared the stairs. This was not one of the public stairwells but was intended for service use. As such it was small and narrow, spiraling downward. It was far less likely to be guarded than the main wells, but if there was someone waiting upon it they would not see them until they were nearly on top of them.

A sudden commotion whipped their heads around. A man in Howe armor, sword in hand, had rounded the far corner of the corridor and was rushing toward them. Instantly both Nike and Eleanor brought their bows up. He was wearing a helmet far too low over his eyes to make a sure shot but he had either lost or neglected his gorget, and his throat was exposed. 

Nike loosed her arrow a breath after her mother did. Eleanor had clearly sought to stumble him, because her arrow appeared like magic in the crease of his groin. Nike had aimed for the hollow of the bastard’s throat, but he twisted at the last minute and the arrow implanted in the side of it instead, spearing through muscle. 

When he twisted Nike realized he was not charging them but was instead being chased. Holly, painted with blood and eyes alight like one demon possessed, had belted around the corner after him. 

As the two arrows struck him he did indeed stumble, his hand flying up toward the one now sticking out of the side of his neck. His mouth opened in a horrified gape and blood flashed from his lips. His momentum was too much for his stumble and he crashed to the ground, dropping his sword and throwing his hands up frantically as Holly bore down on him. 

Instantly the infuriated mabari savaged him, her snarls mingling with the choked sounds of the man’s voice before his cries were crushed into silence. 

“Holly!” Nike started forward a pace, lowering her bow a bit. She was relieved to see the dog, and not just because having her along would increase their chances of getting to the larder intact. “Holly, come!”

Her prey now dead, Holly dropped the man’s throat from her jaws and padded toward them, her head lifting and her tiny tail starting to wiggle in a pleased fashion. 

“Let’s go,” Eleanor said, taking Nike’s arm as they both turned back toward the stairwell.

A metal clad fist looped out of the well and slammed into Eleanor’s face with a sickening crack. Nike felt her mother’s fingernails clutch into her arm before she fell aside, thrown to the ground by the force of the blow, blood already spilling from her nose. 

Keeping momentum from the strike, the moving wall in armor caught hold of Nike by the neck and shoved. White flashed over her vision for an instant as her head struck the wall by the stairwell. Fingers that felt like knotted steel dug into her windpipe, instantly cutting off her air. She was no longer holding her bow. She must have dropped it, but it felt as if it had simply vanished from her grip. 

She flailed toward the bearded face of the man who was throttling her, her swimming eyes focusing on his face.

The man wasn’t wearing a helmet, and his greasy hair flopped over his forehead. His beard glimmered with spittle and flecks of blood as his lips split into a yellowed grin. He shifted a little, and she heard the rasp of a dagger being drawn. He spoke in a low, almost eager growl.

“Hello…pretty.”

She flailed again desperately, and her fingers managed to tangle in his beard. Even as she yanked, the thunder from her dream rang through her head again, and Holly rose up behind him.

The dog’s two bear-like paws slammed against the wall on either side of Nike and her attacker, her chest slamming hard into the man’s back and driving him forward. While this served to break his grip on Nike’s throat, having a man who was wearing armor and outweighed her by more than a hundred pounds driven into her while pinned against a wall was far from pleasant. Heat and pain flashed through her chest, she felt the dagger blade tear through her blouse and skid over her ribs. 

She saw Holly’s mouth wide open, her teeth gleaming, her jaws poised on either side of the man’s head. The sight of Holly clamping those jaws shut around his skull was lost in a white flash as the back of her head hit the wall again.

The soldier gave a surprisingly high-pitched scream and was torn off of her. Nike, struggling to breathe, her head spinning, slumped onto the ground. She heard a strange grinding, like someone trying to chew on a rock, and the scream grew louder. 

Then a crunch. Air wheezing through her throat, Nike’s eyes cleared enough to see Holly still had the ugly soldier’s head in her jaws and was shaking him violently, his body shuddering and limbs beating the ground like a ragdoll. The soldier was clearly beyond caring about such treatment. His neck had obviously broken, and from the look, so had part of his skull.

Her watering gaze turned away from the dog and she tried to shift, to push herself to her feet. Nearby, her mother was slumped but moving. She pushed herself weakly into a sitting position, her back to Nike. 

She saw Eleanor’s shaking hand reach out toward the bow she had dropped as she looked toward Holly, who was still shaking the dead corpse of their attacker as if the dog enjoyed how it made him dance. Then Eleanor immediately start looking around frantically.

“Nike!” she cried, her voice sounding thick and stuffed.

“Mama,” Nike said, but her voice was little more than a thin and rusty whisper. How Eleanor heard it over Holly’s snarling was beyond her, but her mother’s head snapped around toward her. Eleanor’s eyes were already starting to turn black, her nose swollen and out of place, thick smears of blood painting her chin. 

“Nike! Sweetheart!”

Then she was there, griping her tight, frantically searching for the source of the blood on her blouse. Nike got herself into a bit more of a sit then managed to catch her mother’s shaking hands. Speaking was all but impossible, but she managed to wheeze out a ‘…all right…not deep…have to go…”

Determined, she somehow managed to get to her feet, finding and lifting her bow with her. Her head immediately stabbed with pulsing pain that threatened to make her eyesight go white again, but it dulled down after a few beats and she kept her feet. Eleanor as well seemed a little dizzy but was trying to steady herself the same as Nike. Quickly as she could, she found her own bow and picked it up. Miraculously, both weapons were intact. 

Holly had lost interest in making the body jump and dance any more, and had dropped him when she saw both women on their feet again. Whining worriedly, the dog moved over and lapped at Nike’s hand. She gripped the mabari affectionately around the ear.

“Good…girl…” she said, but both words felt lit with flame.

“Holly, we need to get downstairs, to the larder,” Eleanor said softly. The dog’s ears pricked and she immediately moved to the stairwell, peering down it for a moment before looking back over their shoulder and giving them an encouraging tail wag, before moving into the darkness. Steadying each other, Eleanor and Nike followed.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Much apologies for the wait. Hopefully it was worth it.

 

* * *

 

 

The nightmare that had started as a dream about the burning stable had been going for what felt like hours. Holly led them through the corridors and servant’s passages, wisely avoiding the main thoroughfares and open corridors that would undoubtedly walk them into a mess of Howe men. Many of the torches had not been lit or had gone out, and so much of their way was in deep darkness, broken only occasionally by puddled moonlight through a high window.

 

In the dark, Nike held her bow and an arrow in one hand and gripped to her mother’s tightly with the other. When there was enough light to see by, she released Eleanor’s hand and readied the bow for firing again. Her head had cleared some, but her chest still hurt with each drawn breath.

 

Occasionally outside the narrow passageways they could hear fighting, but the sounds were growing more rare, and Nike was afraid that it was already too late. All their remaining men were now dead, and Howe’s men were left to systematically search the castle at their leisure until they found them.

 

In her mind’s eye she could see a vision over and over again, a vision she neither wanted nor could banish. Her father, laughing with Howe, bent over some parchment or map or supply manifest. Howe drawing a dagger from his belt, and driving it into her father’s back, between the ribs and into the heart. She could see her father sagging down to his knees, dead before he fully crumpled to the floor, his last expression bewildered.

 

As they neared the kitchen, they could see a slice of light coming from the open door that separated it from the passageway in which they stood. Holly approached this gap with her head held low, short fur in an angry ridge up her back and over her shoulders, but she uttered no growl. Nike carefully edged up beside the dog, her bow lifted and taut.

 

When she saw no upright forms, no movement, she gave Holly the slightest tap with the side of her foot against the mabari’s leg, then shouldered the door open. Holly rushed in at the same moment, then halted.

 

No one living was in sight. The cook was sprawled near the door, the lid of a heavy pot and a cleaver near her outstretched hand. There was blood at the edge of the cleaver, and a smear on the doorpost. Nike felt a hollow but grim satisfaction that whomever had killed the cook had paid for it with at least a small amount of flesh.

 

The two elven servants who had helped her mother taking inventory just a few hours ago were nowhere in sight.

 

Eleanor gripped Nike’s arm gently as she stepped toward the larder door, but Nike softly halted her and then gestured toward the cook. She had fallen in the doorway itself, and her arm and head were blocking the door open. Whispering a soft ‘stay’ to Holly she padded quietly over to the door, then glanced cautiously outward.

 

At the end of the corridor there were three men in Howe’s colors talking. They all had their swords out and the weapons were blood stained, but they were pointed at the floor. None of the three looked much older than Fergus, and as she saw them they laughed as if they were discussing a rousing game of wicked grace over drinks.

 

Her shoulders and arms burned with the effort of not lifting the bow toward them, a strong and sharp bile flooding her mouth. Instead she eased back again, then gently slid the cook back just enough to allow the door to shift closed.

 

Crossing the kitchen back toward her mother, she halted her opening the larder door. “Let Holly go first,” she whispered.

 

The larder door wasn’t as quiet as the kitchen door, but Nike didn’t think the soft creak it made was enough to carry outside the room. As soon as it was wide enough Holly slipped through and vanished into the dark. Only a moment later she reappeared, ears up but a soft whine in her throat, before she vanished away again. Nike immediately hurried after her.

 

The missing elven servants were slumped against the shelves of supplies. One of them was very close to the hidden entrance of the escape tunnel. Holly headed toward this one but it wasn’t until her mother let out a strangled cry of ‘ _Bryce!_ ’ that Nike realized it wasn’t one of the elves at all, but her father.

 

Eleanor rushed past her daughter and to the man’s side, gently gripping him, a sob in her throat. Nike felt her entire soul seem to clench, then she started with surprise when he lifted a hand toward Eleanor’s face.

 

“ _Your nose,”_ he said weakly. Nike hurried over to her mother’s side.

 

“Never mind my _nose,_ ” Eleanor said, cradling his head. “Nike, we must stop this bleeding!”

 

Putting her arrow back in her quiver and shouldering her bow, Nike immediately turned and found some empty wheat sacks. They were burlap, but it was the only cloth they had available. Folding one into a thick pad she tucked it under her arm and then flipped open a small container on the shelf. It was about a third full of some finely ground powder- elven root.

 

Nike snatched a sloppy handful of it then returned to her parents. Reaching past her mother she dumped the handful of root on the horrible wound in her father’s side and then pressed the folded burlap against it. He hissed faintly.

 

Nike was no healer and had very little experience with wounds, but even she could see this one was bad. It was wide and ugly, and if it had been made by the point of a sword, there was no telling how deep the blade had run. Bryce was deathly pale, and seemed to be struggling weakly for every word.

 

“I knew you’d come here,” he said, reaching for Eleanor’s face again. She snatched at his hand, clinging to it. “Oriana…Oren…?”

 

Neither Eleanor nor Nike replied but he must have read their expressions, because he slumped back a little with a pained sound. “ _Fergus…_ ”

 

“We’re going to get you out of here,” Eleanor said. Nike got to her feet. She did not want to leave his side but they could not linger. Hurrying over to the entrance of the tunnel, she found the catch, then slid aside the false wine keg hiding it. The tunnel itself was only about five feet high at the start, though it widened further in. It was also as black as pitch.

 

“Holly!”

 

The mabari moved to her side and at a gesture, vanished into the tunnel. She’d make sure it was clear, and she’d be able to sniff out any men lurking close on the other side. Moving back to her parents Nike looked at her mother.

 

“We’ll have to carry him. I’ll take his shoulders-“

 

“No…no…” Bryce looked away from his wife, and this time reached for his daughter. “No, pet…it’s no use. This wound is the end of me…”

 

“ _No,”_ Eleanor said with an almost frightening intensity. “We are not leaving you behind, we-“

 

There was the sound of abrupt fighting- dim, but not far. Nike immediately surged to her feet, setting an arrow to her bow and pressing her ear against the larder door. The clash of swords stopped swiftly, but then she heard footsteps.

 

“They’re coming,” she said as she backed away from the door, stretching her bow taut. They were too late. They were not going to escape. Nike was going to die here with her parents.

 

She felt oddly relieved at that idea. She would die with her parents, but she would take down as many of them as she could before that happened.

 

The door suddenly swung open and she loosed her arrow toward the head of the man in armor that stood there. He was fast, almost as if he expected the attack. He leaned to the side, and the arrow swept past his temple, the sharp edge severing a few strands of iron gray hair as it passed.

 

“Lady Cousland, hold!” The voice was familiar, and she recognized the grimy, sweat-dampened face.

 

It was Duncan. The Warden Commander had his beaten and bloody sword in his hand. Nike was somewhat aware that a second figure was behind him but her eyes were fixed on Duncan. The instant she had fired she had snatched another arrow from the quiver and had reset the bow. This second arrow was now aimed at his face as well, and she did not lower it.

 

Still holding the dying Bryce in her arms, Eleanor spoke when Nike didn’t lower her weapon. “Sweetheart, it’s the Warden-“

 

“ _I know who he is_ ,” Nike said, and the ferocity in her voice startled even her. “How do I know he’s not helping Howe? _Where has he been?”_

She heard a faint sound off to the side and realized her father was speaking- or trying to speak. She could not make out what he was saying, nor did she shift her attention away from Duncan. He had not moved forward or given any indication of threat, but neither had he put his sword away. She still could not see who it was that lingered behind him- they seemed smaller and not armored, but they were mostly hidden behind Duncan’s broad back.

 

“Nike, it’s all right,” Eleanor said, but her shaking voice was not that convincing. “Your father says Duncan was helping to guard the great hall against Howe’s men.”

 

“I don’t-“

 

“It is true,” Duncan said, his voice that infuriating calm again. “I was helping your men hold the gates, and then the hall. Your father passed through looking for you, with two other men in his company. He told Gilmore that if any of his family were to appear in the hall, send them to the kitchens. I do not mean to rush you, my Lady, but the gates are breached and the hall is lost. Gilmore was wounded and stayed behind to cover me, but it will not be long before Howe’s men find you in force. We must get you out of Highever.”

 

“Who’s behind you?” Nike asked. Immediately the second form shifted, showing her face. It was the other kitchen servant, the elven girl. She looked pale and battered, a scrape raw on one cheek. In her badly shaking hand she held a bread knife.

 

Nike finally lowered her bow, though she did not take the arrow from the string. “Father’s badly wounded. We have to get him out of here.”

 

As if the room held some safety she was glad to be in, the servant hurried inside the moment Nike lowered her bow, rushing over to Eleanor’s side.

 

“Mistress, what can I do to help?”

 

Duncan also walked over toward the elder Couslands, and as he did Nike hurried to the door they’d come through, closed it, and then dragged one of the nearby barrels in front of it. It wasn’t heavy as it was nearly empty, and would do little more than fall over the moment someone opened the door, but she did it anyway.

 

“I have some edevas,” Duncan was saying behind her. Nike looked over after finishing with the barrel. He was now crouching beside Eleanor, and between the three clustered around Nike could see nothing of her father but one of his legs.

 

He was trying to speak again. Nike could hear a low rasping sound and her mother trying to hush him. Striding over she saw Duncan slipping a small vial of liquid red back in the pouch at his side.

 

“What are you doing?” she asked. “Give it to him! We-“

 

“His wound is too grievous,” Duncan said to her. “The amount I have would do nothing but prolong his pain.”

 

“ _Give it to him_ ,” she said in frustration. “Then we can carry him out of here and find more. We don’t have any time-“

 

“You are right,” Duncan said, and looked at Bryce. Nike had a sudden image of herself lifting her foot and planting it right in his nose, as hard as she could. “We do not have any time. I am sorry Lord Cousland, but even shifting you at this juncture would do you in.”

“My family…” Bryce said weakly.

 

Eleanor shook her head. Her eyes were red but the tears had stopped, and she had that set, resolute expression on her face again. Nike felt as if the world were narrowing in seeing it there, and she did not have to ask to know what it meant.

 

“Mama, this is not-“

 

Eleanor ignored her, looking at Duncan. “They’ll be in here at any moment. Get Nike out, use the passage. I will keep them from following you as long as I can.”

 

“No!” Nike said furiously, stamping one foot.

 

“My Lady Cousland,” Duncan said to Eleanor, also ignoring Nike. “I will pledge to keep your daughter safe with my life, but you know what threatens in the south. You know what I must ask in exchange.”

 

Eleanor looked at Bryce who wearily nodded, then nodded herself and looked back at Duncan.

 

“Keep her safe,” she said, her voice stern but faintly trembling. “Find my son and tell him what happened here, warn him.”

 

“I swear it my Lady.”

 

_“No!”_ Nike said again, both horrified at the situation and enraged no one was listening to her. “Mother, I am _not_ leaving you and father here to be murdered!”

 

Now Eleanor looked at her, and there wasn’t an inch of yield in that gaze. “Nike, your father is dying, and we cannot help or move him. He is my husband, my _love_ , and I swore an oath before the Maker and my own soul that I would stand beside him until the end. I mean to keep that oath.”

 

“But-“

 

“I know this is hard,” Eleanor said more gently. “You are a grown woman now, Nike, and for better or worse you must stand on your own, as all children someday must. You need to go with the Warden, warn your brother and tell the king what Howe has done. I love you Nike, and I am proud of you beyond words, but you _need to go_.”

 

“I won’t,” Nike said in a low and unconvincing voice. Her cheeks were damp and her eyes were wet. She could feel her cheeks burning, and her wounded head was a miserable red throb. “I won’t-“

 

Just then there was a clatter in the main kitchen. All heads save Bryce’s snapped around toward the larder door, and Duncan got to his feet.

 

“Go,” he said to the elven servant, and she rushed toward the tunnel. Holly had returned and now stood near to it, growling low at the larder door as the elf slipped past.

 

Duncan then headed to Nike and took her arm, gently but firmly. “We must go now,” he said. Nike tore her arm away from his grip as if pulling it away from some venomous beast, her eyes blazing at him.

Without speaking, she went over to her parents and drew the few arrows she had left out of her quiver and slid them into her mother’s. Eleanor took the bow from Nike’s hand and instead gave her daughter her bow, before leaning up and kissing her cheek.

 

“ _Live_ ,” she whispered. “Stay safe. We will always be with you my love.”

 

Nike’s throat felt swollen with molten lead, and all she could do was nod. Her father was as pale as paper, save grey circles the color of old wash water under his eyes. His skin was clammy and damp as she bent and kissed his forehead. He did not open his eyes, but his breath fluttered over her ear momentarily as he whispered.

 

_“…live…proud of you…”_

 

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t respond. She kissed his cheek instead, leaving a damp smear of tears on his skin behind her.

 

As she straightened she forced herself to start walking. She was afraid if she didn’t keep moving she wouldn’t be able to begin again.

 

Duncan followed closely behind her, and she was suddenly consumed with the idea he was doing so to prevent her from turning around and going back. It felt like a hot coal burned just behind her collar, at the juncture of her chest and throat, and she suddenly absolutely hated the man. She hated everything about him, his very _existence._

 

She hated that he had come here. She hated that he had tried to manipulate her into displaying her skills. She hated that he had wanted her for the Wardens. She hated that he had sought to chastise her like a child, and she hated, _hated_ -that he was alive and unwounded and family was dying around her.

 

_None of this would be happening if it weren’t for_ him, she thought as she reached the tunnel. She knew even as she thought it that it wasn’t true. This horror was not Duncan’s doing. Still, she clung to that thought and that hate- it was the only light she had left right now.

 

Holly hesitated to follow them, and for a brief moment Nike was tempted to leave the dog with her parents. With the mabari’s help they would last longer, take out more of Howe’s men.

 

_And in the end, all that will happen is Holly will be dead right along with them_.

 

So, as she let the dark of the tunnel close over her, Nike spoke in a low and rough voice that was so clogged with grief and hate it barely sounded human.

 

“Holly, come.”

 

The dog whined, shifted back a pace toward the tunnel, then reluctantly she followed. Duncan waited for the mabari to pass him and then caught hold of the inner rim of the false keg that disguised the tunnel’s entrance.

 

Nike stood hunched and still only a few feet inside the tunnel, Holly now at her side. The sole slab of light that broke up the heavy black narrowed over her face, reflected off her tears and red-rimmed eyes, and then was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

Nike sat on the hard ground, her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. The dark of the night could not be fully beaten back by the light cast by the small fire and a thin, waning moon.

Holly was lounging nearby but was not asleep. The mabari was relaxed though watchful, which meant she didn't hear or smell anything nearby to be concerned about. Normally, her attitude would have put Nike immediately at ease, but nothing about the last three nights had been normal. Nike feared she'd never feel at ease again.

The only one of their small party asleep was the elven servant, Tajha. Curled up on the ground nearby, her butcher knife near at hand, she could have been nothing more than a small heap of discarded clothing. Nike supposed elves were inherently used to sleeping on cold ground outside, and envied the girl the ease at which she dropped off.

Nike had slept outside before on grand hunts hosted by her father or one of his friends, but there had been padded rolls, soft pillows, and fur blankets. Here, there was nothing but stone, dirt, and the clothes she'd managed to escape Highever wearing. After all that had gone on in the castle and now three days beating feet southward, said clothes were torn and filthy. Nike felt filthy herself. Never had she gone so long without a bath, and she felt like grimy bugs were crawling all over her.

Across the fire sat the Warden. She had not said more than a word to him since they had departed Highever. Her anger at him, misplaced though she knew it was, had in no wise abated. Right now, being able to be furious at him for failing to save her family was the only lifeline she had to cling too.

In her hands she clasped the bow that her mother had given her. She still had no arrows so it was useless if they had to fight, but they had little to fear for now save bandits or Howe's men (if he had sent any after them). In just a few more days they would nearing Ostagar, and the Wilds where the darkspawn lurked, and she had no doubt she'd be feeling her lack of arrows then.

It would have taken quite a bit longer if they remained on foot, but Duncan had managed to procure a pair of saddle horses just that evening. Provided they were not nags with all the speed and grace of plodding plow mules, it would shave a great deal off their travel time.

"You should be resting, Lady Cousland," Duncan said. He had not spoken much to her either, and when he did what he said went ignored. Giving him a look over the fire and to defy his desire that she rest, she set aside the bow and got to her feet. She walked over to the two horses tethered to a stump nearby and started to look them over. She'd had no real interest in them when Duncan had first brought them, but now it was an excuse to ignore what she knew he wanted.

Nike wasn't sure where he'd gotten them from. He'd disappeared shortly after they had made camp, and had returned two hours later with the pair. Nike didn't think there were any towns or villages in that distance, but she could not be sure. Duncan had been more or less been following the most rough and wild paths he could, avoiding normal thoroughfares and farmsteads when possible.

One of the horses was a tall black mare, worn in the teeth and with a lopsided crescent of white on its forehead. She seemed old but hale, a bit unkempt but not mistreated.

The other was a surly grulla gelding that rolled the whites of his eyes at her as she approached, watching her warily. It was a mean, poorly bred beast with an overly dished face, giving him something of a bulging forehead. As well he was pig-eyed, bull-necked, and had out-turned elbows. As she went to touch his shoulder he swung his head around and nipped at her. She whipped her hand back, her fingers narrowly missing the click of his teeth.

Ugly as the beast was he didn't look as if he'd been particularly mistreated. He was of a decent weight and unlike his companion had recently been groomed. His mane appeared as if someone had trimmed it with a sword edge and it hung in choppy curtains. In her experience, horses only snapped for three reasons: they were used to being mistreated, they were in pain, or they'd had a weak-willed owner who allowed themselves to be bullied.

He had no marks or overt signs of abuse, and from the cut of his mane he might have been a soldier's horse. Soldiers didn't tend to allow themselves to be bullied by their mounts.

That left only pain. Watching him carefully she began to run her hands over his back and sides. His ears flattened but he didn't not make an attempt again to snap at her. Cautiously, she stooped to feel his foreleg. She saw him lift his back leg from the corner of her eye and darted back just in time to avoid getting kicked. She scowled furiously, and without thinking looked to Duncan. "Help me hold him, would you?"

Wordlessly he rose and came over, taking hold of the animal's halter. As Nike went to feel the leg again he said, "He isn't lame. He's in no pain."

"And how would you know?" she asked, straightening again and glaring at him.

"Do you think I would not check a horse's paces before purchasing him? His former owner also had a few unkind words to say about this particular fellow. Animals are much like people, Lady Cousland. Sometimes, they are just bad-tempered."

Stubbornly, she said, "Just hold him," and ran her hands down his leg again. He shifted his weight and flattened his ears, but with Duncan's firm grip on his face he made no real effort to kick her. There was no swelling, no feel of anything out of place. Lifting his hoof, she could see he was properly shod. There were no loose nails, no split frog or stone that had become lodged. Dropping his foot she continued all the way around the horse, checking everything. With every moment that passed she became more and more determined to find some kind of injury or malady, but there was none. The horse was apparently in perfect health.

"Well, what kind of fool buys a horse with a nasty temper, anyway?" she asked, when any last hope he might be wrong had gone.

"A fool with a strong need who has little choice available," Duncan said. If he was pricked by her words, he didn't show it. He was as insufferably stoic as always.

Now that her silence had been broken she seemed unable to control herself. Instead of returning to her place by the fire she rounded on him.

"Just so you know I am not joining the Wardens. I am coming with you to Ostagar only because that is where my brother is, and I intend to inform the King about Howe's unforgiveable treachery."

"My apologies Lady Cousland," he said calmly. He was still holding the horse's halter with one hand, the other almost absently rubbing at the concave dish in the beast's nose. The horse had his ears back but made no effort to bite or kick Duncan- it seemed to be enjoying the rubbing just enough to tolerate the man doing it. "The choice is now out of your hands."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"You made your feelings plain in Highever, my lady," he said. "It was my intention to respect your decision. With Ser Gilmore as a candidate I could afford to do so. However circumstances have changed. I came to Highever seeking warden recruits and the situation at Ostagar demands I return with one."

"Then you'll find someone else," she said hotly. "I am not-"

"As I said, the choice is now out of your hands," he told her. He looked sympathetic suddenly, an expression that made her want to hate him even more. "Your father understood. I'm afraid, Lady Cousland, that I have invoked the Right of Conscription."

She felt abruptly sick. She stared at him, disbelieving. "He…no. You…you can't-"

"Unfortunately, I can," he said softly. "And given circumstances as I've said, I must. I am sorry."

"Sorry," she echoed flatly. That feeling of being gut punched had only increased. "I am-"

She didn't finish her sentence. Turning away from him she went back to the spot where she had been sitting before. Laying down on the ground she curled with her back to him, her head pillowed on Holly's flank. Her arms were wound around herself as if she was freezing, or feared she might vomit.

Instead she grit her teeth, clenched her eyes shut, and tried to ignore the taut pain in her throat and the tears that slipped out anyway.

The next morning they set out again, this time on horseback. Tajha rode on the leggy black mare behind Duncan, and Nike was upon the surly grullo. She had grabbed the gelding's reins before Duncan could even make an effort too. The act was petulant but the only display of defiance to her situation she could think of. She may not have a choice with the Right of Conscription (and she'd be looking into that very closely, you could be certain), but she was not going to let Duncan make the decision on which horse she was going to ride. She certainly wasn't going to let the horse make the decision.

He tried to bite her twice, but once she was actually in the saddle and they were moving, he seemed to surrender to his lot and behaved fairly well. He did not have the elegant grace and smooth rhythm of that Caspi had possessed but he seemed to make up for it with a stubborn and almost untiring determination. Duncan kept them at a fair trot, and by the time they stopped for the night the leggy black mare was worn and glistening with sweat. In contrast, the grullo seemed as if he would have been perfectly content with going another twenty miles.

Nike, feeling much better toward the homely gelding, had given him a pat on his neck as she dismounted. The moment her weight was on the ground, however, he rewarded her kindness with another sharp snap toward her arm that caught cloth and barely missed skin.

"Mean bastard," she said in a low growl, as what improvement had been made in her mood disappeared.

Tajha, wordlessly, came over and helped her to unsaddle the beast and get him settled. Duncan had built another fire, and Nike went and sat down with Holly again. A few minutes later, Tajha brought her some food. It was dry and tasteless, as most of their meals had been. Holly eyed her as she ate with a string of drool dripping off her chops, and Nike snorted.

"You've been catching and wolfing down squirrels and rabbits all day, don't act now as if you're starving for want of my dried old bread."

If anything Holly's expression grew even more beseeching, and Nike rolled her eyes before giving the last hard chunk to the dog. "Fine, take it."

The mabari wolfed it down in one gulp, her tail wiggling in delight. Barely a moment later, however, her nub ceased wiggling and very muscle in her body grew rigid. She was staring off into the distance.

"Warden," Nike said, immediately getting to her feet and feeling for the short blade at her hip. Duncan only half glanced at the dog before he too was up, sword in hand. Tahja scurried over to Nike's side, eyes wide and breathing fast as she held her butcher knife.

Wordlessly, Duncan vanished into the dark. Nike remained tense. Holly was not growling- yet- but neither had the dog relaxed. Nike was debating sending Holly into the dark after Duncan when she heard his voice calling.

"It's all right, Lady Cousland. I'm bringing others."

She didn't realize how she had felt when Holly had gone alert, until Duncan's voice floated back. A small dam of some kind broke deep in her chest and the fear, misery, and grief of the last several days seemed to flood upon her at once. It resisted any feeble attempt to mask it with anger, and by the time Duncan appeared through the trees, Nike had curled up again at her spot with her back to the fire, hands over her face. She made no sound, and though she knew Duncan was not nearly so stupid as to think she'd actually fallen to sleep in the few seconds between his call and his return to the camp, she pretended at slumber anyway.

He seemed, thankfully, to have no desire to call attention to her pretense. It sounded like there were at least three or four people with him, all men, and probably that same number of horses. Duncan spoke to Tahja, indicating more food had been brought along with the newcomers, but Tahja merely said thank you and did not move from her spot near where Nike lay curled. Neither did Holly, though from the shift Nike could tell the mabari had sat back down.

"Well, this is cozy," one of the men said. "I know you're not one to pamper new recruits, Duncan, but I seem to recall at least getting a bedroll when you recruited me. Or are these the kind of girls who just enjoy eating rock for breakfast?"

"Word must not have reached you yet, Alistair," Duncan said. "We were forced to leave Highever unexpectedly. Arl Howe betrayed the Couslands and wrested control of the castle. Both the Teyrn and the Teyrna were murdered, as were their daughter-in-law and young grandson. We didn't even have horses until yesterday."

"That's…that's dreadful!" The second man- Alistair-replied. Any trace of joviality had gone from his voice. "How could Howe think he'd get away with such a thing?"

"He would have gotten away with it easily had everything gone to plan," Duncan said. "Even now, Fergus Cousland, the heir, may be in great danger at Ostagar. Howe was not aware I would be at the castle and so did not include me in his plotting. Nor was he considering, I think, the resourcefulness and determination of Nike Cousland and her mother."

"By the Maker…" Another male voice said. His was deep and rich, and carried an unmistakable trace of Highever to it. He sounded both stunned and aggrieved. "The Couslands are dead? I…I served at the castle for seven years; my wife lives in Highever still. Do you know if-"

"Howe does not intend to harm the people of Highever," Duncan said to this man. "The slaughter was kept only to the castle. There is no reason to think your family has been hurt."

"They were good people, the Couslands. Bloody good people-" he replied. Nike tried to place his voice, to see if she knew the man. If he was a soldier or a servant who had worked at the castle for such a span of time, she had probably met him at some point. His voice, however, was not familiar. "Is that who you have here? Nike Cousland?"

"Yes," Duncan said. "She is the one curled up near the mabari. We should not disturb her for now."

"Poor girl," yet another male voice said. "Don't know the Couslands from the Maker but that's an awful, horrible thing."

"Did you recruit her?" The one called Alistair asked. "Or are we just escorting her to safety?"

"She is a recruit," Duncan said. "She is not terribly pleased about the prospect, but it has become necessary."

"What about the other girl?" the third male voice said, the one who had claimed not to know the Couslands from the Maker.

"That is Tahja. She was a servant of the Couslands and joined us when we escaped. It is also impolite to speak of her as if she wasn't here and able to hear us."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-…I just wondered if she was a recruit or not too."

There was a pause in the conversation. Nike heard horses being settled, tack being removed, and the fire being stoked up a little. When the voices resumed they seemed more conscious of being overheard and were kept low enough Nike could make out no words. Through all this, she remained motionless, hands still over her face with her back to the camp. Her palms were wet, but she did not give the sobs or sniffles the satisfaction of being uttered aloud.

Weariness stole over her and sleep had finally crept quite close, when she sensed a movement nearby. Rousing just a little, she heard Tahja speaking softly with some of the men. The one called Alistair said 'Right, of course,' loud enough to be understood, and then a few moments later gentle footsteps padded near to Nike again.

A soft blanket was draped over Nike's curled body. A hand gently touched her hair. Behind her hands, Nike grimaced slightly in grief, but refused to let the tears renew. She waited until she was quite sure Tahja had returned to her own spot before her fingers stole up to her shoulder, caught the edge of the blanket, and drew it slowly over her head.


	8. Chapter 8

Nike woke early the next morning, still fumbling to reach out for her nephew as he burned and screamed in the middle of the nightmare stable. It took a moment to realize that her fingers were scrabbling over dirt and not scorched wood. Around her, that the cold misty morning around her was not the dark, smoky terror of that long ago fire.

Glancing a bit toward where Tahja lay curled nearby, Nike carefully sat up. She felt stiff and aching. The blanket the elf had draped her with the night before slid into a heap beside her. Nearby in the trees, Holly was snuffing around, searching for either breakfast or a place to relieve herself. By the quality of pearl grey light, the dawn was as newly born as it was possible for it to be.

Her back still toward the rest of the camp, Nike untied her mussed hair. With a grimace she swept the tangled, filthy locks back into some semblance of order, then retied it.

 _What I wouldn't give for a hairbrush, or a comb,_  she thought.

She had no mirror either, which was currently a blessing. She had no doubt she looked just this side of a homeless vagabond in rags.

Looking down at her tattered and stained clothes, her mouth twisted.  _Face it. You_  are  _a homeless vagabond in rags._

Brushing a palm over her cheek in an attempt to clear it of dirt, she looked around. The fire was low behind her, little more than embers. Duncan sat awake beside it, but he was not looking at her. He seemed to be poring over some worn, yellow documents. The pouch they must have come in was at his hip.

Over by the leggy mare and her sullen grulla, three other horses had been tied. Their owners were bedded down beside the dying fire, asleep still. One was snoring.

Duncan had known and even seemed to be somewhat expecting the men. Other Wardens perhaps? New recruits? It didn't matter.

Longing for even a nearby stream she could wash her face in, Nike headed over to where the horses stood tethered. The saddles and supplies were stacked nearby, and she spotted a canteen. Just by lifting it she could tell it was close to full. A quick sniff at the lip told her it was not alcohol. She dipped a drop or two out over her fingers and then, satisfied it was water, crouched. She poured a generous splash over her hands and face. Her skin immediately stung with the cold, but she didn't care. She mopped at her face with her hands, then did the same for the back of her neck.

"Apple?"

She looked over to see one of the newcomers was sitting nearby against a tree. He had his knees drawn up and he was coring a small, sour looking apple with a tiny knife. Another three or four apples sat beside him, none of any improved quality. His hair was short and somehow boyish in cut, and his smile at her was affable.

When she only looked at him and said nothing, he said, "What, apple got your tongue? Wait, let me guess. An apple killed your uncle-"

She stiffened at the same moment he seemed to realize what he had said. His face drained of color, his smile vanishing. "I'm…I'm so sorry, I didn't-"

Grabbing the canteen she sealed it up again, slinging it back where she'd found it. The man was on his feet now. The apple he'd been coring was in one hand, the small knife dangling in the other.

"Really, I am…I am  _so_  sorry. I wasn't thinking. That was a  _dreadful_  thing to say-"

"Who  _are_  you?" she asked, and her voice was even icier than she'd intended.

"I'm Alistair," he said. "You were asleep when we arrived last night-"

"You're more Grey Wardens, I take it?" she asked, glancing around at the other two fellows, who were still sleeping.

"I am," he said. "The other two are recruits, like you-"

She fixed him with another look, one that dared him to call her a 'recruit' again. Then, before he could speak, she jerked her chin toward the other apples still laying on the ground.

"Give me one of those."

"One of…oh!" He looked around, then picked up one of the anemic apples. "I'm afraid they're a bit bitter."

"I don't intend to eat it," she told him as she took it from him.

"You're not going to throw it at me, are you?" he asked. She ignored him, turning instead toward the grulla. The horse flattened his ears again and eyed her, but when he sniffed the apple he took it without nipping at her. "Oh, of course. For…for the horse."

She said nothing, not looking at him. Instead, she rubbed her knuckles over the dish in his forehead, the way Duncan had the previous day. The beast seemed to appreciate that. He kept his ears back but they were more relaxed now, not tight flat as they had been. His eyes sank half closed and she could feel him pressing against each rub.

"He's yours then?" Alistair asked. He seemed desperate to make conversation.

"Yes," she said, and she supposed it was true. Mean-tempered and ugly as the animal was, she had more or less claimed him hadn't she?

"He looks… _solid_ ," he said, and her gaze shifted back to him. He gave a hopeful shrug. "Sturdy. Bet he could go for miles."

She said nothing, only fixed him with another look, and after a moment he cleared his throat. "What's his name?"

Name? She had not thought of a name. Before she could respond, Duncan interrupted them, striding over.

"We will be departing shortly. We should reach the road by midday, and join a final contingent from Lothering heading in to Ostagar. With luck we will arrive at the ruins by sundown tomorrow."

"Yes, Duncan," Alistair said. "I'll see to getting the horses ready."

As he stepped past, Duncan looked at Nike. "You have met Alistair. The other two gentlemen who joined us are Ser Jory and Daveth. They are both recruits as well."

Still rhythmically rubbing the horse's head with her knuckles she said, "Ser Jory? Is he from Highever?"

"He is," Duncan said. "Do you know him?"

She shook her head. Though she knew he must be well aware, she did not want to confess she had not been sleeping the night before, and had overheard their conversation.

"He served your father at the keep for a few years," he said. "It is unsurprising you do not know him. With so many coming and going, you cannot be expected to have memorized the names and faces of them all."

"They brought some supplies with them?" she asked.

"Yes, a few."

"Any arrows?" she asked, and finally looked at him. The still empty quiver hung over her shoulders. She had not removed it since leaving her parents behind, even to sleep.

"I believe Daveth has a stock," Duncan said with a nod, then turned and headed back to the fire. The two other men had started to stir, sitting up and yawning. Duncan approached the smaller of the two and spoke to him. The other man was large, with the burly build of most soldiers. His rusty red hair was just past the point where it could be called mere thinning. A significant slab of his scalp was visible under the short bristles.

If the smaller, dark haired man was Daveth, than he had to be Jory. She looked at him a moment, but other than a vague possibility of recognition, she felt nothing. If he  _had_  served at the keep with her father, a younger Nike had taken no particular note of him.

"Breakfast, milady?" Tahja asked, suddenly at Nike's elbow. In her hands she had a small chunk of cheese, some bread that looked a far sight less stale than the previous night's fare, and what looked like strips of dried meat. At home, Nike would have scoffed at such an offering, but after three days of eating worse or nothing, it looked like the elf was offering her a bounty.

"You're Maker sent, Tahja," she said, and the elf blushed a little.

She went back to her previous spot and sat down after accepting the elf's offering. Holly had returned from her rooting in the wood and sat beside her, eagerly staring at the food as she had the night before.

Duncan came over just as Nike finished, giving the mabari the last tear of jerky. In his hands he carried a dozen arrows. She got to her feet as he approached, wiping her hands off on her dirty trousers.

Putting the arrows into the quiver made her feel better. Just arming herself with a weapon she knew how to use allowed to her let go of some of her misery and grief. It gave her a small sense of power in the midst of the powerlessness she'd felt now for days.

The others were wolfing down their small portions of breakfast as well, as Alistair saddled up the horses. She watched him a moment, wondering why he was doing it. He was a Warden. The other two men were only recruits, and would be under his orders, would they not?

Perhaps it had less to do with rank and more to do with age? Ser Jory was obviously into his middle years, his short bristles starting to gray a little. Daveth, though he had no such gray in his hair, seemed to be much the same. Alistair, though, looked little older than Nike.

As he went to saddle the grulla, she smirked in amusement as the horse made a swift lunge at the man's leg with his teeth. Alistair jumped back, clumsy, and nearly dropped the saddle.

"Well that's nice!" he said as the horse glared at him. It seemed to almost be daring him to try again.

"Here." Nike went over and took the grulla's halter, controlling his head and rubbing at that spot he seemed to like. As Alistair warily approached again and lifted the saddle onto his back she said, "Don't take it personally. He hates everyone."

"Oh, that's disappointing," Alistair said. "I was thinking of naming one of my kids after him. The grumpy one with the funny shaped head."

For the first time in what felt like eternity, Nike let out a laugh. It was brief and quick, the mirth burned out almost as soon as it had flared up. She scowled a little at herself.

Alistair looked at her through the corner of his eye as he bent, buckling the saddle. "It's all right," he said. She shook her head.

"I should not be laughing when the bodies of my family aren't even cold," she said. "While Howe eats at our table, drinks our wine."

"I don't think they'd begrudge you-" he started, but she interrupted him before he could finish, uninterested in his empty consolations.

"Are you finished with the saddle?"

"Yeah," he said after a moment, straightening after giving the buckle a final small tug. "All trussed up."

The horse was letting out little grunts of pleasure at the knuckles against his head. Alistair smiled at her a little.

"Seems he likes  _you_  at least."

"No, he just likes having this spot rubbed," she said. To prove her point, she stopped rubbing and released the horse's harness. Immediately, his ears flattened and he snapped at her. Expecting it, she easily kept herself from the bite. "You see?"

"Well, then no problem," Alistair said brightly. "When we get to Ostagar, we'll just send him at the darkspawn. They'll never know what hit them."

Nike got the feeling he was trying to make her laugh again and resented him for it. She knew she shouldn't. He seemed a decent enough man, if a bit of an oaf, and she knew he was only trying to help.

 _There is no helping something like this_ , she thought as she went back over to where Tahja was putting out the campfire.  _Short of sticking a knife in Howe's beating heart, there is no helping._

* * *

They started off before the sun was well up, wending in a line through the trees. Tahja was, once again, riding behind Duncan at the lead. Nike was not officially bringing up the rear, but more often than not she found herself there as she got lost in thought. Without real lead, her horse took to wandering behind the others. Holly was usually at her side, but now and again she ran ahead, or disappeared into the undergrowth. Once, she came back with blood on her jowls, and Nike knew she'd managed to catch something for lunch.

Ser Jory tried riding beside her for a time at the outset. Like Alistair, he expressed his sympathies at what had happened at Highever, telling her he had served under her father for a few years and repeating what a tragic, tragic thing it was to have happened. He swore to ride back with her and the King after the mess at Ostagar was resolved, to help her bring Howe to justice. After a while, his energy faded out. He seemed to realize all her responses had been, at most, grunts or pointed looks. He watched her sadly for a long while, then. It was even more irritating than his jabbering had been. Eventually, he went back ahead and left her alone.

Then, nearly midday, Alistair also dropped back to her side. He at least didn't seem keen on reminding her of exactly what she wanted to forget, but instead seemed to just want to chat.

"I hear you're quite a hand at the bow," he said. He grinned at her so affably, it was as if he thought they were on a pleasant Sunday countryside jaunt, with a picnic waiting for them up ahead.

"Who told you that?" she asked.

"Well…Duncan."

"Duncan wouldn't know, would he? He hasn't seen me shoot."

"Oh. So you carry it around then because you're rubbish? Hoping you just need to ride in on your bitey mean horse and throw arrows at darkspawn, and they'll take off with their skirts flying?"

"Darkspawn wear skirts do they?"

"Hey, I don't judge."

She looked at him, appraising . Was he just trying to lift her spirits in a misguided attempt to make things go away that never could or would, or was this just his personality? She wasn't so certain any more.

"How long have you been a Warden?" she asked.

"Oh, not long," he said.

"What made you decide to become a Warden? Or were you conscripted?"

 _Like me_ , she nearly added, but thought better of it.

"No, I volunteered. I decided the retirement package was too good to pass up."

She eyed him again. "What did you do before?"

"Well, I was trained to be a Templar," he said. "I ended up joining the Wardens just before taking my oaths."

"A Templar?" This surprised her a little, though  _why_  she could not say. Thinking he might take offense at her shock, she added, "Their retirement package not as good?"

He laughed. "Oh no, it's more that I've never been terribly fond about having my face cursed off."

"So getting it ripped off by the darkspawn is a better prospect?"

"Yes. At least with the darkspawn, they've got to get up close to rip your face off. A mage can do it without even getting up from his breakfast table."

"You're joking."

"Yes, I am," he said with a grin. "Honestly, mages aren't that bad. The thing is, I didn't actually make a choice about being a Templar. It was sort of…made  _for_  me. I have nothing against Templars, but being a Warden-"

"That at least was something you could pick for yourself," she said, understanding.

"Exactly. Then if it all goes horribly wrong I have no one but myself to blame."

"Are mages not really that bad?" she asked. He looked at her.

"What, never met a mage?"

She shook her head. "No. Not that I was aware of, anyway. You just…hear stories."

"Well, you'll be meeting a few soon. Word is that group from Lothering's got a few Circle mages and Templars with them; reinforcements from the Tower. Mages are just people, they just-"

"Can curse your face off without even getting up from their breakfast table?"

"…yes," he said slowly. "Well,  _anything_  sounds dreadful when you look…at the dreadful bits of it. I mean, it's-"

He broke off abruptly, hand going to his sword as he looked forward along their small group. His expression had gone still, his focus intense. Without pause, she snatched an arrow from the quiver and set her bow. Ahead, Duncan had brought his horse to a halt, drawing his own sword. Daveth and Ser Jory were also drawing theirs in reaction.

"What is-?" she started to ask, her eyes scanning the trees around them.

"Darkspawn," he said, before she could finish. He put his heels to his mount's side and rode forward toward Duncan. Nike did as well, passing Jory and Daveth. As she got to the older Warden's side she wordlessly reached out. Catching hold of Tahja's arm, she helped her to swing off the mare and onto the back of the grulla, behind her. If there was fighting to be had, better the elf be out of the way with the archer and not with someone who had to swing a sword.

As Tahja's hands gripped her waist, Nike was still scanning the trees. All was silent, but she could not see any sign of anyone there but them.

Then Duncan said, "There aren't many. A scouting group perhaps. Lady Cousland, fall back. They're coming in from the north."

She looked where he was looking but could still see nothing. Obeying, she drew the grulla back from the others to give her space for her arrows. Holly had gone off into the woods again about ten minutes before. Nike wanted her back but didn't dare whistle to bring her there. If the darkspawn were not aware they were there, drawing attention to themselves would be foolish.

She kept her arrow set but loose, hoping the grulla would be guided with knee pressure and not the reins in case they had to move. Having to rely on a horse whose abilities she did not know made her, not for the first time, desperately miss Caspi and his training.

All sound seemed to have vanished from the world. Even the leaves were not rustling. Then…the distant sound of human voices yelling, animalistic snarls, and clashing steel. It was to the north but some distance off, a hundred yards or more through the trees. She could not see who was fighting or exactly where. There were odd little pops of colored light she could not explain, close to where the sounds had issued.

Strangely, both Duncan and Alistair seemed to relax. The elder Warden turned around and looked at them. "The darkspawn ran into the road, and the group from Lothering. Come. By the time we reach them the matter will be settled."

He sheathed his sword, and as he did, Nike nudged the grulla forward to rejoin the other two recruits, reluctant to stow her bow. Without speaking, they followed the two Wardens forward. In the distance, the sounds and flashes of color seemed to slow, and then finally, to die.


End file.
